


lotus

by frockbot



Series: ren in inaba [1]
Category: Persona 4, Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Persona 1 References, Persona 2 References, Persona 3 References, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Pining, adults treating ren like the teenager he is, all ren all the time, basically all persona references, but also protectively, by which I mean respectfully and kindly, ren in grief, ren in inaba, ren in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frockbot/pseuds/frockbot
Summary: To Shu Nakajima, Ren is a classmate, a friend, and a crush. To Kanji Tatsumi, he's a kid, a coworker, and a duckling. To Nanako Dojima, he's a history nerd, a tutor, and a protector, just like her big bro.Only one person in the world knows that Ren is all of these things and more. And he's probably dead, so...[an extremely self-indulgent character study of Ren Amamiya, told through everybody's perspective but his. Set in the year after Maruki's defeat.]
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: ren in inaba [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2157087
Comments: 69
Kudos: 279





	1. crocus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **cw:** homophobia and homophobic language; mild violence

On the first day of Shu Nakajima’s third year, his new homeroom teacher called him in early. He took a moment to pretend that it might be good news.

“Nakajima-kun,” he imagined her saying, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s happened. I never thought I’d see the day. Every college in the country is clamoring to have you. They refuse to wait any longer. You’re graduating, effective immediately.”

“But, Nakayama-san,” he protested, clutching his hand to his chest, “I’m not ready! I haven’t completed my exams, I haven’t studied, I—!”

“You _are_ ready,” she said, slamming her hands on her desk. “You’ve been ready for this your whole life! Go now. Grasp your future!”

Hah. Not likely.

Shu’s teachers liked him. Specifically, they liked to dump their problems on him, even though he wasn’t on the Student Council or, frankly, that great of a student. No, Nakayama was probably gonna rope him into the cleaning club, or foist some transfer student on him.

He wasn’t far off.

Nakayama met Shu at Yasogami High with a strained smile and said, “Nakajima-kun, hello. I hope you had a nice break. Wonderful,” she added, before he could reply, and blustered onward: “Ren Amamiya will be joining our class this year. I hope you’ll consent to mentor him.”

Typical.

Amamiya was, of course, the kid who’d gotten arrested partway through Shu’s first year. Shu had known him tangentially; they’d been in the same grade since middle school, though never in the same class. He’d always seemed fine. Quiet, reserved, but fine. Shu could still remember the rumors after he'd been arrested: wild shit about old men shoved to the ground and stomped on; about Amamiya kicking and biting as the cops hauled him away. He could still remember thinking, _Huh?_ That _guy_? It hadn’t made sense.

It still didn’t. Shu and Amamiya stood in Yasogami’s entryway, watching Nakayama speed through a hasty welcome. (Had she not known he was gonna be in her class? Had everybody forgotten he was coming back?) Amamiya’s dark eyes were dull behind his glasses, almost entirely obscured by his messy, overlong black hair. He stood hunched, his spine bowed forward and shoulders tucked in, bringing him down almost level with Shu.

He was so obviously harmless that Shu couldn’t understand how he’d gotten in so much trouble. The only threatening things about him were his height—he was tall, could have been menacingly so—and the toned muscles plainly visible beneath his unbuttoned collar. Shu had to admit that the latter was weird. Maybe he’d worked out at his old school? That made sense, right? Tokyo schools didn’t have, like, tracks or fields, so they made the kids lift weights. Sure. That explained it.

Then Shu heard his own name, and turned back to Nakayama.

“—will help you reacclimate to the school,” she was saying, eyeing Amamiya like a dog who’d tracked shit into the house. “He’ll answer any questions you have. And, Amamiya-kun, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that any further criminal activity will be grounds for immediate expulsion.”

Amamiya’s gaze sharpened, lancing through the air so suddenly that Nakayama actually recoiled. In that instant, Shu thought he saw the fabled dangerous edge: a shadow like a lion poised to strike.

But then it was gone, and Amamiya was soft and vague again, nodding like nothing had happened.

Nakayama cleared her throat, wiped her palms on her skirt. “Well,” she said. “Well then. I’ll see you in class.” And she smiled at Shu, like saying, _He’s your problem now_ , and bustled away.

“Uhhh,” Shu said, shaking himself. “So.”

Amamiya looked at him, blandly expectant.

“This is the Classroom Building,” Shu said, gesturing around. “Our classroom’s 3-1, on the top floor.”

“I know,” Amamiya said.

Shu blinked, recovered. “Right. The Practice Building’s that way,” he added, pointing left, down the hallway. “That’s where all the clubs meet.”

“I know.”

“You don’t actually need me to show you around, do you?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Shu scratched the back of his head. Amamiya’s stare wasn’t as forceful as it had been, but it was still intense, a scalpel laying aside Shu’s skin for inspection. “Do you...have any friends in town?”

“No,” Amamiya said, with a faint lilt that suggested he thought Shu was stupid.

Shu blushed. “I guess that makes sense. Everybody was pretty shitty to you after everything went down.”

Amamiya’s silence was confirmation: he thought Shu was stupid.

“Just, uh,” Shu said, scratching his head harder, “if you want to hang out at lunch, or something—me and my friends can—”

“No,” Amamiya said. And then, as an afterthought, “Thanks.”

Shu dropped his hand. “Okay.”

But when he risked a glance at Amamiya, half-hoping to meet those scrutinizing eyes, Amamiya had already turned away. Hands in his pockets, chin low, he trudged up the stairs and out of sight.

***

The bullshit started early.

Amamiya chose a seat by the window, near the back of the room, and proceeded to make himself as small and insignificant as possible. Shu sat a couple of rows over and back, close enough that he barely had to turn his head to see him.

Shu told himself he was just following orders, keeping an eye on the kind-of-new kid, but...the longer he looked, the more there was to see. The jut of Amamiya’s wrist when his sleeve slipped down. The muscular arc of his shoulders when he propped his elbows on the desk. The razor’s edge of his jaw, glimpsed here and there beyond the high houndstooth collar of his jacket. Amamiya didn’t look at Shu again—he didn’t look at anybody—but Shu wanted him to. He wanted to get a better look at his eyes, impossibly dark, impossibly deep.

Shu was doomed, and he didn’t even know it yet.

Nakayama made Amamiya introduce himself at the start of homeroom, and the whispers followed him all the way back to his desk. He didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t seem to care. He didn’t do anything especially distracting that morning, but Shu was distracted anyway, watching Amamiya watch the clouds pass outside the window. Watching the light catch the scattered silvery strands in his dense hair.

Anyway: the bullshit. The minute they were released for lunch, the class dipshits, Nakamura, Oshima, and Kasai, crowded around Amamiya’s desk.

“So,” Nakamura said, puffing out his chest. “You’re back.”

Amamiya, who had immediately taken out his phone, didn’t react.

“I’m surprised they let you _come_ back,” Nakamura added, “considering.”

Amamiya smiled faintly at his screen and tapped out a message.

“Hey!” Nakamura slammed his hand on Amamiya’s desk, inches from his arm. “You listening to me, punk?”

Frowning, Amamiya glanced at Nakamura’s hand, and then at his face. “No.”

Nakamura sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not listening.”

Several people snickered. Shu turned his into a cough.

A red flush climbed Nakamura’s neck into his cheeks. “W-well, you should be!” Amamiya turned away, back to his phone, and Nakamura bristled. “Look, asshole, I’m giving you fair warning, all right? You cause any trouble—start any shit—you’ll answer to us. Got it?”

Amamiya stood up. There wasn’t room for him to do this with Nakamura and his buddies looming so close, but he did it anyway, and Nakamura staggered backward and toppled over the chair behind him. He landed on his back, wedged between two desks, and flailed like an overturned turtle.

“ _Dude_!” Oshima cried, and “ _Bro_!” Kasai yelled, and they seized his arms to try to pull him upright.

Amamiya breezed past them and out of the classroom, hands in his pockets.

***

After that, as far as Nakamura and his friends were concerned, Amamiya was public enemy number one. They glared at him in class, spat at him in the hallway, even hissed nastiness when he passed their desks to go to the bathroom. Amamiya gave no sign that he noticed.

They were especially bad in gym class, jostling him in the locker room, trying to trip him on the track, pointedly aiming soccer balls at him. The jostling he ignored; the tripping and kicking he dodged, deft as a cat. Half of Shu wished Nakamura would knock it off, but the other half wanted him to keep trying, because he liked watching Amamiya skip out of the way or step nimbly over a reaching foot or spin on his heel to counter a ball with his elbow. He was—Shu had never thought of anybody as _pretty_ before, especially not a guy, but Amamiya was. He was _graceful_. Elegant. Poised.

Shu was absolutely, positively doomed.

After two weeks of fruitless garbage, Oshima got lucky. Kondo had them jogging the track that day. Normally, Amamiya moved as slowly as possible, elbows tucked in, strides long but lazy. For some reason, that afternoon, he decided to actually _try_.

He lifted his head, pulled his shoulders back, and ran. In a blink he had passed the gaggle of average runners, including Shu, and caught up to the jocks. Staring at his back, Shu got the sense that he could have outrun them all.

If he meant to, he didn’t get the chance. Oshima kicked sideways, caught Amamiya’s ankle, and sent him sprawling so hard and fast that he skidded, catching himself on his hands to keep his face from scraping the asphalt.

“Hey, whoa!” Kondo shouted. “Amamiya, you all right?”

Nakamura, Oshima, and Kasai were still running, sniggering, but the other jocks paused to look back. Shu caught up to Amamiya as he started to sit up, his face perfectly neutral. Kondo trotted over too.

“Kondo-san,” Shu said, glaring after Nakamura. “Oshima—”

“Don’t,” Amamiya muttered. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You all right?” Kondo repeated, bending to help him up. “That was a nasty fall.”

“I’m fine,” Amamiya said, not quite shrugging him off.

“Keep going, guys!” Kondo told the others.

Shu tensed: red rivulets were coursing down Amamiya’s fingers. “You’re bleeding!”

Amamiya lifted his hands, turned them over. His left palm was scratched raw; the heel of his right hand had been sliced open, not deep, but bleeding freely. “Huh.”

“Yikes,” Kondo said, wincing. “You’d better head to the nurse.”

“Nah,” Amamiya said, starting to wipe his palm on his pants and then thinking better of it. “I have some bandages in my bag.”

“Go on back to the locker room, then. Might as well get dressed and sit out the rest of class. We’re almost done.”

Nodding, Amamiya turned.

Shu, looking at his hunched shoulders, was suddenly terrified that if he lost sight of him, Amamiya wouldn’t come back. It was ridiculous; even later, he wouldn’t know where it had come from; but the fear seized his throat and he blurted, “I’ll go with him. Give him a hand.”

“Good idea,” Kondo said. “You make sure he goes to the nurse if he needs to.”

“I will.”

Shu fell into step beside Amamiya, eyeing him. There were no other obvious signs of injury: no stiffness, no stumbling, no stains on his knees or elbows. His expression was calm and composed.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Shu asked.

“No,” Amamiya said. He cut Shu a glance so keen that it took his breath away. “Why are you coming with me?”

When Shu trusted himself to speak, he replied, “I’m worried about you. They hurt you.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“Are you kidding me? You totally bit it! You could’ve broken your arm, or your leg—”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

Amamiya stopped, turning entirely to face him. Shu stopped too, standing firm despite the force of Amamiya’s gaze. Amamiya’s eyes were narrowed a fraction—if Shu hadn’t already memorized every inch of his face, he might not have noticed—and his chin was tipped sideways. It was the first time Shu had ever seen him confused.

“Nakajima,” Amamiya said, and the sound of Shu’s name in his mouth made Shu’s stomach leap. “Why do you care?”

“You can call me Shu,” Shu said. It was a miracle that his voice came out level.

Amamiya frowned. “Nakajima.”

Sighing, Shu rubbed the back of his neck. “Look,” he said, looking at his own scuffed shoes. “Not everybody in Inaba’s an asshole, okay? I don’t know what happened with you before, and as long as you’re not gonna attack anybody now, I don’t care. You seem—” _Awesome, amazing, badass—_ “cool. I wanna be your friend.”

Amamiya’s breath caught. Shu risked a peek through his bangs, and wasn’t disappointed. Amamiya was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Probably, behind his hair, his eyebrows were raised.

After a second, he grimaced and pushed down on the cut on his hand.

“This, uh,” he said. “Really hurts, actually.”

Shu straightened up. “You sure you don’t want to go to the nurse?”

“Nah,” Amamiya said. “Like I said, I have bandages in my bag. And antiseptic. And painkillers.”

“Really?” Shu followed him into the locker room. “Why are you carrying all of that around?”

Amamiya shot a smile over his shoulder that landed squarely in Shu’s chest. “I’m kind of a packrat. You can call me Ren, by the way.”

“Ren,” Shu said, testing the sound. It felt good. “Okay.”

***

They hung out a lot after that.

They went to Junes and wandered around looking at everything. (Shu was used to the sheer size of the store, but Ren seemed to have forgotten. In Tokyo, he explained, every shop was tiny.) They kicked rocks on the riverbank and peered into the water, looking for fish. (Ren knew a lot about them.)

They walked through the slowly-reviving Shopping District, ducking into the bookstore to check out the new arrivals; hanging out at Daidara, where Ren stared hungrily at the knives on display; fiddling with the broken capsule machines outside the Shiroku Store. (Ren actually got something once, with Shu huddling close under his umbrella.) One night, Ren texted Shu after dark and convinced him to meet at the Store, which had mysteriously transformed into a glamorous bar. The hostess served Ren like an adult.

They ate croquettes and chewy steak kebabs at Souzai Daigaku. They studied the bulletin board, hoping for something new or exciting to do. On rainy days, they hurried into Aiya, and Ren polished off the Mega Beef Bowl without breaking a sweat. They hung out at the shrine, sprawled on the steps, talking.

They talked a lot in general. At first Shu carried their conversations, filling the air while Ren nodded along. Eventually, though, Shu managed to extract a couple of details about Ren’s time in Tokyo, and that opened the floodgates.

The people Ren texted in class, at lunch, and even when he and Shu hung out were the friends he’d made last year. They’d all scattered to the far winds of the earth, but they kept in touch. They were planning to meet up this summer. The first time Ren said so, Shu felt a pang, but he promptly dismissed it. Of course Ren should go back and see his friends. After all, they’d stuck by him when nobody else had.

Ren resented how completely the town had turned on him after the incident with Shido. (The first time Shu heard that name, a neuron flickered, but didn’t fire.) He hadn’t done anything wrong, but everyone had turned their backs on him anyway. Shu couldn’t imagine it. Standing up to a drunken dickweed was brave enough; but then to have it thrown back in your face? To be dragged away, locked in jail, caught up in a whirlwind of interviews and interrogations and court appearances? And _then_ to get shuttled off to Tokyo, into some stranger’s attic, and have to go to a school full of people that hated you—

“How the hell are you still standing here?” Shu asked once, gawking at him. “How are you not, like, a puddle on the floor?”

Ren shrugged, rubbed a lock of hair between his fingers. “I had my friends.”

They didn’t see each other _every_ day. Ren got a job at Tatsumi Textiles partway through the term, and Shu had other friends to talk to and stuff to do with his family. But when they weren’t together, they were texting, and when they weren’t doing that, Shu was thinking about doing it. Ren was a bright, warm light in his life, a high he was always chasing.

Shu had never had a crush on anyone before. If he had, he would’ve known what he was in for.

As it was, Shu was so caught up in the joy of seeing Ren, learning new things about him, making him laugh, that he didn’t notice when his own thoughts shifted onto a different track. Slowly, without realizing he was doing it, he started walking closer to him, so their shoulders bumped together. Leaning in nearer than necessary to be heard over the muzak at Junes. Noticing Ren’s scent, the flecks of grey in his dark eyes, the shape of his lips when he talked. Especially when he said Shu’s name, how his mouth compressed into a soft pink pucker—

The first time Shu wondered what it would be like to kiss him, they were sitting at the gazebo on the flood plain, knees brushing beneath the table. Ren had his chin in his hand and was grinning at something Shu had said, some knock against Nakamura. Shu felt a hook sink into his gut and pull, trying to tug him forward to press his lips to—

“You okay?” Ren said, breaking the spell. “You’re all flushed.”

“Oh, uh,” Shu said, scooting away, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I’m okay. Yeah. I’m just. Uh, hot. Uh, we should head home.”

“Okay.” Ren got up, smiled down at him, and Shu’s mouth went completely dry. “Let’s go.”

Fuck. Shit. Shit. Fuck.

Shu spent the next two weeks in a blind panic.

Being gay wasn’t the problem. (Was he gay? Had he ever liked another guy before? Had he ever liked a girl before? Had he ever liked _anybody_?) Some of the people in town could be dicks about it, but Shu had spent enough time online that it didn’t bother him. If he _was_ gay, he wasn’t about to say so in public, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t, like. Have a boyfriend. Quietly. Discreetly. Especially a boyfriend like Ren.

Who was his friend, who liked him, who could and would and had talked to him for hours about nothing and everything, fish and armor and things Shu had never known he was interested in until Ren brought them up. Who soaked up Shu’s interests like a sponge, throwing himself into books and movies with the same enthusiasm Shu felt, who never judged Shu even if he didn’t get it. Who _smiled at him_. Who let Shu sit as close as he wanted, who smelled so _fucking_ good, whose skin caught the sunlight like water, rippling with a strength he rarely demonstrated but which was always there, under the surface.

What would it be like to have that strength directed at him? Holding him? Pinning him—pinning—

Fuck, shit, shit, fuck.

How was he supposed to know if Ren felt the same way? Could he ask? Did he want to hear the answer? What if Ren freaked out, or didn’t want to be friends anymore? The idea made Shu sick. No. No, he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t make things weird between them. He’d just have to ignore it. Let Ren take the lead. He’d lived in Tokyo; he probably knew how to do this; if he was interested in Shu, he’d figure out a way to say so.

(Shu spent a lot of time daydreaming about Ren taking his hand, cupping his cheek, leaning in to—)

Shu must have done a good job hiding his angst, because nothing about their dynamic changed. When they were together, they were good, normal friends, give or take a few tense moments where Shu might have grabbed Ren’s shirt and kissed him. When they were apart, Shu alternated between agonizing about their relationship and thinking about all the lovely ways it could shake out. He did nothing. He said nothing. And Ren didn’t either.

***

Until the school camp-out.

Ren and Shu weren’t in the same group, but Shu kept an eye out for him anyway. It was hard not to; he was compelling even when he was deliberately blending into the background. Shu also kept an eye on Nakamura's group, who were still determined to humiliate Ren at every opportunity. Out here in the woods, with the teachers only half-paying attention, was the perfect chance to pull something.

But Nakamura’s gang kept their hands to themselves until Saturday morning. After breakfast, everyone had a couple of hours to wander around (and swim in the river, if you were into that) until the buses arrived to take them home. Shu beelined immediately for Ren, who was kicking dirt over his group’s firepit.

“You wanna go walk around?” Shu asked.

Ren smiled at him, making his stomach flutter, and said, “Sure.”

In prior years, Shu had never taken advantage of the walking trails that spidered outward from their campsite. He’d been too busy sulking with his friends, moaning about how much they hated this stupid trip. It was only now, with the sun breaking through the clouds overhead, that he could appreciate how nice the mountain actually was. Yeah, it sucked to be here with his classmates; yeah, it was hot and sticky and buggy; yeah, the food was terrible. But the woods were hushed, the leaves overhead shining like emeralds, and Ren was very close and very warm at his side, so it was okay.

He said so to Ren—minus the part about Ren’s proximity—and Ren nodded thoughtfully. “I actually didn’t hate it that first year either,” he said. “I liked the people in my group.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

But he didn’t elaborate, and the downward pull of his mouth told the story. He’d considered them his friends. He’d been wrong.

“I wish I’d known you better then,” Shu said. “I was in a group with my friends too, but we all thought we were too cool for this. Maybe you could’ve convinced me otherwise.”

“We _are_ too cool for this,” Ren said dryly. “Even Nakamura.”

Shu laughed. “Jeez, tell me how you really feel!”

“If I never do another icebreaker, it’ll be too soon.”

“Hey, Amamiya!”

A door slammed shut behind Ren’s expression, and Shu’s chest constricted. Together, they pivoted to face the sneering Nakamura. He stalked forward, lifting his chin like he could hope to match Ren’s towering height. Oshima and Kasai prowled behind him, grinning like hyenas over a fresh carcass.

Shu put himself between Ren and Nakamura. “Whatever you’re gonna do, don’t.”

But Nakamura kept coming, like Shu wasn’t even there, even when Shu put up his hand to stop him. His palm struck Nakamura’s chest, and then his elbow was bending, his arm folding inward as Nakamura advanced. Ren gripped Shu’s shoulder and pushed him gently aside, drawing himself up. Nakamura had to tilt his head back to meet Ren’s gaze, which would have been funny if Shu’s heart wasn’t thrumming in his throat.

“Seriously, dude,” Shu said, grabbing at Nakamura’s arm. “Knock it off. This whole thing is so stupid—”

“Back up, faggot,” said Oshima, and Shu’s blood ran icy cold, and Oshima seized the back of his shirt and threw him to the ground.

“ _If you touch him again_ ,” said Ren in a clear, resonant voice, “I’ll break your hand.”

There was a ringing silence. Shu sat up, gasping for breath. Nakamura was wide-eyed and pale, and both Kasai and Oshima gaped at Ren, who glared back with a ferocity that might have turned his eyes gold and cat-slitted.

Nakamura recovered first. “See,” he croaked, and cleared his throat. “See? I knew it. I knew you were just a punk.”

“Shu,” Ren said, without looking round. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Shu said, getting to his feet. _Faggot_ , Oshima had called him. How had he known? “I’m fine. Let’s just go.”

Holding Nakamura’s gaze, Ren stepped sideways, put his hand between Shu’s shoulderblades (Shu heard the faint crunch of what must have been leaves clinging to his shirt), and steered him away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ren asked, peering at Shu. His expression had softened; whoever he’d become to threaten Oshima was gone. His fingers were like a brand on Shu’s skin.

“Yeah! Yeah.” Shu almost tripped over his own feet, caught himself, hitched on a crooked smile. “No big deal.”

But it very quickly became a big deal. The banked fire behind Ren’s eyes flared, and then he was falling backward, dragged by Nakamura’s hand on his shoulder. He turned the fall into a twist, managing to stay on his feet, and lifted his head just in time to catch Nakamura’s fist on his jaw.

All of this happened so fast that Shu barely understood it, and he only had the presence of mind to yell, “ _Seriously_?” before Kasai and Oshima were there, grabbing each of Ren’s arms, hauling him upright.

“I’m getting Nakayama, you _idiots_ ,” Shu snapped, stumbling backward—

He didn’t have to. Ren, face hard and closed, brought his heel down onto Kasai’s instep. Yelping, Kasai jerked away, and then Ren hooked his foot around Kasai’s ankle and swept his legs out from under him. In a single, fluid motion, Ren pivoted and sank his fist into Oshima’s stomach; when Oshima doubled over, retching, Ren planted his palm on Oshima’s head and shoved him over too. Then Nakamura was there, stupidly trying to get his arm around Ren’s neck. Ren gripped it, bent forward, and flung Nakamura over his own shoulder, slamming him to the earth with a _crash_ that echoed through the trees.

Ren straightened up, ruffled his hair back into place, and stared down at the three of them alternately whimpering, groaning, and wheezing.

“That it?” he said, in the ringing voice from before.

“You—prick,” Nakamura coughed. “You _prick_.”

Ren snorted. “Yeah, okay. C’mon, Shu.”

He strode off.

Realizing his mouth was hanging open, Shu shut it, and hurried after Ren. “How did you _do_ that?”

“Self-defense training,” Ren drawled.

“Your face—”

Ren touched the angry red welt rising on his jaw. “It’ll bruise, but nothing’s broken.”

“Dude, that was—”

“You’re _done_ , Amamiya!”

Rolling his eyes, Ren stopped and turned back. Nakamura was on his feet, supporting Oshima, who was still coughing. Kasai stood ahead of them, fists clenched, glowering at Ren.

“Done,” Ren said, not a question.

“They’re gonna expel you now, you piece of shit,” Kasai snarled, spittle flying between his teeth. “The minute we tell—”

“Tell them what?” Ren retorted, so sharp that Kasai broke off. “That you jumped me in the woods? That you pushed my friend and hit me?”

“That you _attacked_ us—”

“Attacked you?” Ren said, pitching his voice syrupy. “What do you mean?”

“That fucking kung-fu stuff, you jackass!”

“Kung-fu?” Ren cocked his head and widened his eyes like a puppy accused of peeing on the carpet. “I don’t know kung-fu.”

“You threw us on the goddamn—”

“I pushed you away from Shu,” Ren replied, the words snapping like a whip through the air. Kasai flinched. “You fell.”

“You hit me,” Oshima croaked.

“Who’s got the bruise to prove it?” Ren tapped his cheek. The color drained from Nakamura’s. “Looks pretty bad for you, doesn’t it? Especially since you’ve been gunning for me since I got here. No. Best case scenario, we all get punished. Worst case...”

Nakamura scowled. “Let’s go, guys.”

“What?” Kasai said, rounding on him.

“But—” Oshima said.

“He’s right,” Nakamura snapped. “Let’s _go_.”

And he stalked past Ren. After a second, Oshima followed, still clutching his midsection. Kasai spat at Ren’s feet as he passed.

As soon as they were gone, the thread that had been pulling Ren’s spine straight snapped. He slumped.

Shu said, “That was amazing.”

Ren blinked at him, and laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know about that.”

“It was _amazing_ ,” Shu insisted, stepping forward, drawn magnetic to the solid steel lacing through Ren’s body. Now that he’d seen Ren’s strength, it was obvious, omnipresent, barely and badly hidden like the muscle under a bear’s fur. Shu couldn’t believe he’d ever thought Ren was harmless. “You’re amazing.”

Ren quirked a smile, almost a smirk. “Well. Thanks.”

They were standing way too close.

Ren must’ve broken a sweat, because there was a musk underlying his scent that tingled in Shu’s nose, made his head spin. Shu thought he could taste the heat of Ren’s body on his tongue, clinging in his throat.

“Um,” Ren said, at the same moment that Shu said, “Ren.”

Ren’s eyebrows were furrowing, but Shu wasn’t paying attention to them. He was watching Ren’s mouth.

“Can I,” Shu said. He lifted his hand, set it gently against the muscular plane of Ren’s throat, the band of tendon curving upward from his clavicle.

Ren’s skin jumped beneath his fingers. “Shu—”

“I, uh,” Shu said, breathlessly. “Sorry.”

And he kissed him.

Ren’s lips were soft, dry, warm. Motionless. He stood completely still, not even breathing. It couldn’t have been longer than a second, but it felt like forever; long enough that Shu started to pull away, to stop—

But then Ren _kissed him back_. He was careful, tentative, like he was testing something; he didn’t try to touch Shu, didn’t put his arms around him; but the firm pressure of his mouth as he leaned forward ignited the oil in the pit of Shu’s stomach, flooding his body with heat. Shu pressed closer, fisting both hands in Ren’s collar, inhaling sharply through his nose—

Ren stiffened, stepped back. “Shu.”

“Sorry,” Shu said, blinking out of a daze. His tongue felt thick and heavy. “Was that too much?”

Ren squinted at him. “Huh?”

“The—the grabbing, was that too much? Did I—”

“Oh,” Ren said, shaking himself. “No, it was fine, I just—”

Something was wrong. Shu’s heart was singing, fluttering like a bird in his ribs, but Ren was angling away from him, dropping his gaze down and to the side.

A cold dread bloomed in Shu’s chest.

“You don’t swing that way,” Shu said, tripping over himself to explain the sudden, awful certainty winding through his guts. “You don’t like guys. I should’ve known—”

“No.” Ren shut his eyes, pursed his lips. “It’s not that.”

 _Oh_. The cold expanded, creeping into Shu’s arms, his legs, snagging his flesh with crystals like claws.

“Right,” Shu said. “Right. Okay.”

“It’s not you,” Ren said. “It’s not—”

Shu staggered backward, and Ren looked up. He was pale, shadows hollowing his cheeks, but Shu didn’t notice. He was too distracted by the lump in his throat, the shame thick and bitter in his mouth.

“That’s fine,” Shu said, high and bright; he didn’t recognize his own voice. “It’s cool, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Listen—”

“ _It’s fine_ ,” Shu repeated, twisting the frozen muscles of his face into a smile, or a rictus. “Don’t worry about it. I gotta—”

“Shu,” Ren said, almost a whisper. He looked miserable.

“I’m just gonna,” Shu said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at school?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and he turned around so fast that he didn’t see the painful twist of Ren’s mouth, the landslide buckle of his shoulders. It was all Shu could do not to _run_ away from him, leaving him standing alone on the path.

***

They didn’t talk after that.

It was surprisingly difficult for Shu to _not_ look at Ren Amamiya. Their first few days back in class, Shu had to consciously stop letting his eyes drift to the white expanse of Ren’s shirt across his shoulders, the curve of flesh at his elbow. Shu hadn’t realized how much of a distraction Ren had been. Without him, Shu spent a lot more time alone inside his head.

He spent it badly. Day and night, Shu’s brain pinballed between three extremes: mortification, that he’d read Ren’s signals so wrong; grief, for the version of their relationship he’d built up in his mind; and indignation, that Ren didn’t like him back. Why _shouldn’t_ Ren like him back? Shu was great! He was thoughtful, he was funny, he’d talked to Ren when no one else would—they had tons in common—how could Shu have been so stupid, to throw all that away for a fucking crush? And to do it like _that_ , to just grab him and kiss him out of nowhere—no wonder he’d freaked! And now Shu had lost—god, _everything._ He couldn’t even think about Ren without icy fingers closing around his ribs. But—but who did Ren think he was, anyway—?

It went on like that for ages. It lasted the rest of term, through finals, and deep into the summer.

Thankfully, eventually, the hurt faded. In its wake, all Shu felt was guilt. He was pretty sure he’d been Ren’s closest friend in Inaba—certainly Ren had spent a ton of time with him—but Shu had dropped him like a hot rock. He hadn’t even _looked_ at Ren in months. What was wrong with him? What kind of asshole would just...dump somebody out of their life because they didn’t do what they wanted?

Shu’s kind of asshole, apparently.

It was a physical weight, a boot planted between his shoulderblades, crushing his spine to his sternum. More than once, Shu took out his phone, opened their message thread, and stared at it, willing himself to say something. _Hi. How’s Tokyo. I’m really sorry. I’ve been a huge dick. I didn’t mean to freak you out and I shouldn’t’ve run away. I miss you_.

He did. When he walked past the steps down to the riverbank; when the Mega Beef Bowl’s smell wafted out of Aiya; when the bookstore got a new shipment of graphic novels, he missed Ren. He wanted to text Ren and complain about the heat, the boredom, the pressure from all sides to slingshot himself into some hotshot university. _Are you going to cram school_? he wanted to ask. _Are you going to take the entrance exams? Do you want to go to college? What do you want to do?_

But then Shu would think about how Ren must’ve felt that day, how he must’ve felt _every day_ , and his nerve would shrivel like an autumn leaf. How could Shu just slide back into Ren’s life like nothing had happened? No way Ren hadn’t been hurt when Shu bailed; they’d spent too much time together. Best case scenario, Ren was over it, and would look at Shu like he’d forgotten he existed. Worst case, he’d fold in on himself again, and Shu would know it was his fault.

So he didn’t text, and when school was back in session, they didn’t talk.

***

Until after midterms.

One day in early November, Shu got to school and found everybody milling around the bulletin board outside the faculty office. That could only mean one thing. His stomach clenched, old muscle memory, but then he shook himself. Stupid. He didn’t care about class rankings; hadn’t cared in years, thanks to Yu. Besides, he’d studied hard for those tests, and he’d felt good about his answers.

Still, he held his breath while he waited for his turn at the board. He was so distracted by the clamminess of his palms, the thundering in his ears, that he didn’t notice how shocked and pointed the whispers around him were until he got to the front and read the name at the top of the list.

 _Ren Amamiya_.

Ren was top of the class.

Shu’s heart swelled, rising to fill his throat. _Ren was top of the class_! Of _course_ he was. How many times had he shocked their teachers by actually answering a question right? How many times had he tossed off a random fact like it was nothing? How many times had he and Shu sat huddled over their homework, Ren’s pen flying across the page while Shu’s barely scratched the surface?

Beaming, he whipped around, craning over the other students to look for Ren, to see the moment when he realized—

But then he remembered: it was none of his business what kind of grades Ren got. It was none of his business how Ren reacted.

“Senpai, you’re blocking the board,” a first-year fussed.

“Sorry,” Shu muttered, edging sideways.

Only when he emerged from the crowd did he realize he hadn’t looked at his own ranking. Suddenly, though, he genuinely didn’t care. He’d find out one way or another. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he trudged upstairs.

The classroom was abuzz. Most people were talking about their own grades, bemoaning their fate or praising the merciful heavens; but some were whispering, heads close together, glancing over at Ren. He was, as ever, slumped forward with his elbows on his desk, chin in hand, staring out the window.

The sight of him—the actual, direct sight, rather than the fleeting glimpses of the past few months—stopped Shu in his tracks.

In most respects, Ren was the same. His hair was dense and curly as ever, still styled so that it shrouded his eyes. He’d traded his summer uniform for the black-and-houndstooth jacket, unbuttoned to reveal his rumpled white shirt, open wide at the collar. The muscles collected at his throat were still lean and strong, the edge of his jaw still keen.

But he wasn’t wearing his glasses anymore, and without them, the bright smolder of his eyes was obvious. Before, he’d always gazed vaguely through the window, like he was looking out from deep inside a palace of moss. Now, he _glared_ , irises stark and rough as unpolished jade, pupils flicking to scan the sky, the trees, the ground below.

What had happened to him to make him like that?

Shu had reached him before he realized he was moving. “Hey, Ren?”

Ren blinked, sat up. Turned his head to eye Shu, not suspiciously, but not...nicely, either. “Yeah?”

The students nearest them had gone quiet. The back of Shu’s neck burned. “Uh. I wanted to say, uh. Congratulations.”

Ren tilted his head.

“You’re top of the class?” Shu said. “You deserve it. Congrats.”

“Oh,” Ren said. “Thanks.”

Beat. The burn spread from Shu’s neck into his ears.

“Can we talk later?” he asked, lowering his voice. “At lunch? D’you want to eat lunch with me?”

He was _sure_ Ren would say no, and when he did, that would be it. Shu would know he’d ruined their friendship completely. The certainty sat like a stone in his gut.

So when Ren said, “Okay,” Shu’s brain short-circuited for a second.

“Oh!” he said, shaking himself. “Cool! Okay! We can go up on the roof?”

Ren nodded.

“Okay,” Shu said. He wasn’t sure if smiling was the right response, but he did it anyway. He couldn’t help it. “Great. See you later, then.”

***

The second Nakayama dismissed them, Shu was at Ren’s desk, rocking from foot to foot while Ren piled his books into his bag. Shu gritted his teeth to keep from filling the silence between them; dug his thumbnail into his palm to keep from rushing Ren out the door.

Finally, finally, Ren stood up and looked at Shu. Shu smiled, said stupidly, “It’s this way,” and hurried out.

No one else was up there, which made sense, because as soon as Shu opened the door, a biting gust of wind slammed into him. Cursing, shoving his hands into his armpits, he spun around.

“Okay,” he said, teeth chattering, “maybe this was a bad idea.”

“It’s pretty cold,” Ren said. Shu thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“It was okay this morning!”

“We’re up pretty high. The higher you go, the colder it gets.” Another blast of wind whipped Ren’s hair back. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “We could talk in the stairway.”

“Yeah, okay, good idea.”

Shu herded Ren back inside, plopped down on the topmost stair, and sighed, pushing his hands into his sleeves. “Yikes,” he grumbled. “I’m really not looking forward to winter.”

Snickering, Ren sat down beside him. For a moment, it was like they hadn’t spent almost five months apart. Like Shu hadn’t _torn_ them apart. But when Shu sat up and met Ren’s gaze, reality came crashing back.

Shu said, “Ren, I—”

“It wasn’t personal,” Ren said, low and firm. “That day, it wasn’t—”

“I know,” Shu said, tripping over tongue and teeth too big for his mouth. “I know that. I _knew_ that. I wasn’t being fair—”

“You were right to be upset. I was probably giving off a vibe, or something—”

“You weren’t, and even if you were, I shouldn’t’ve acted like—”

“There was someone,” Ren said, hard and clipped, like he was punching it out of his chest. “In Tokyo. There was someone.”

Shu didn’t dare speak. He hardly dared to breathe.

“He, um.” Something in Ren’s expression wobbled, like a body at the edge of a cliff. “It’s a long story, but he’s—missing.” Shu froze. “Probably dead. I...guess I’m not over it.”

“Ren,” Shu breathed. “Jesus.”

Ren’s mouth compressed into an anguished slant. He pushed the heel of his hand against his eye. “When you kissed me, I—I thought about—that’s why I can’t—”

“Dude, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Shu said. He reached out, carefully, making sure Ren saw him coming, and gripped Ren’s arm. “I mean. God. _My boyfriend’s probably dead_ is a pretty good reason to reject somebody, but even if it wasn’t—I was being an asshole. You don’t owe me anything.”

Ren’s breath hitched as he inhaled. “I—”

“I’m really sorry.” Shu squeezed Ren’s arm, and Ren’s knuckles whitened on his own knees. “I’ve wanted to say that for months. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Me too,” Ren rasped. “I’m sorry, too.”

“ _You_ don’t have to apologize,” Shu said. And before Ren could argue, he added, “I’d really like to be friends again.”

Ren sagged, closed his eyes. For a terrifying moment, Shu thought he might refuse; thought that Shu’s idiocy or this other guy’s ghost had pushed them too far apart.

But Ren said, “I’d like that, too,” and Shu grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technically, in persona 4, shu is 13 going on 14, which would make him 19 going on 20 in this timeline. so…I aged him down two years, fight me


	2. rowan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **cw:** blood, mild violence

“Kanji,” said Kanji Tatsumi’s mother, “do you know Ren Amamiya?”

“Eh?” Kanji said without looking up. He was perched on a stool behind the cash register, jabbing a needle into the little bundle of wool in his palm.

“Kanji,” said his mother, more firmly.

Kanji lifted his head, squinted at her. “What?”

“Do you,” she repeated, “know Ren Amamiya?”

The name tickled something in his brain, but Kanji scratched his head and it went away. “No. Whozzat?”

“He’s a third-year at Yasogami High.”

“I ain’t been to that school in years, Ma.”

“I know that. But he got caught up in some bad business a little while ago—” _Bad business_ was his mother’s word for _crimes_ , which perked up Kanji’s ears—“and I wondered if you’d heard anything about it.”

“Nah, I didn’t,” Kanji said, setting down his wool. “What’d he do?”

“Oh, who knows? With the rumor mill in this town, it’s impossible to say. But I was talking to his mother—I saw her at Junes, you know—and she says the poor boy’s basically been blacklisted. No one here will hire him.”

Kanji sucked his lips against his teeth. “Bastards.”

“Language, dear,” she said mildly, even though she’d called people worse. “I was thinking maybe we could take him on.”

Kanji raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? Do we need somebody?”

“Not really, but it seems like a kindness. Perhaps you could help train him?” Kanji’s mother tilted her head, smiled. Kanji groaned. “I bet he could learn a lot from you.”

***

He was just a kid.

Kanji would never’ve guessed Amamiya was seventeen. Twelve, yeah. Thirteen, _maybe_. Not seventeen. He was pretty close to Kanji’s height, and he wasn’t as baby-faced as your average middle schooler, but he had massive doe eyes and a serious case of taffy legs. (High schoolers always looked like someone had grabbed their heads and stretched them like taffy.)

 _This_ guy had jumped somebody? No way.

“I really appreciate this,” Amamiya was telling Kanji’s mother. “I’ll work hard.”

“See that you do, dear. Kanji, he’s in your hands.”

And she bustled into the back room, leaving them alone. Kanji scratched his head.

“Right,” he said. “Okay. Guess I’ll show you how to work the register.”

It turned out, he didn’t need to. Amamiya—“please, call me Ren”—had worked at a ton of different places in Tokyo, and he knew his way around cash registers. He was happy to do whatever else needed to be done, so Kanji gave him a broom, and he started sweeping.

Kanji settled back onto his stool, took up his roving—which was well on its way to being a small, perfectly round pink rabbit—and went back to work with his needle. Amamiya— _Ren_ swept, and then he wandered around looking at everything on display, and then he found a rag somewhere and dusted all the placards and shelves.

It was kinda nice, having him around. He was quiet and weirdly calming, like a cat. He reminded Kanji of Yu, actually; he gave off the same sorta vibe.

After a while, Ren padded over and peered at the half-formed rabbit. “What’re you working on?”

Kanji eyed him, braced as always for scorn or judgement; but Ren’s expression was really curious.

“It’s needle-felting,” Kanji said, indicating the needle. “You just poke the wool until it takes a shape.”

Ren brightened. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“I’m pretty good at it.” Kanji had been doing it for so long that he could say so without blushing. Pulling out his phone, he opened his online shop and showed it to Ren. “I make sculptures and sell ‘em online. It’s goin’ pretty well.”

“Cool.” Ren scrolled down the list of available items—keychains, mini-sculptures, full-size maneki-nekos—and smiled. “They’re really cute.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s that one going to be?” Ren added, nodding at Kanji’s current project.

“A rabbit. I’m making the body now, and I’ll add the paws and ears later.”

“Nice. Can I help?”

“Uhhh,” Kanji said, wincing. “This is kinda my business, man—”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Ren said quickly. He set Kanji’s phone down. “I get it. Maybe I could borrow some supplies and you could teach me how to do it?”

Kanji hesitated, sighed, and opened a drawer. “Not much to show,” he said, taking out a tuft of roving, a fresh needle, and a foam pad. “This here’s your wool...”

After that, when Ren wasn’t making himself busy around the shop, he pulled up a stool near Kanji and they needle-felted together. Mostly they were silent, intent. When they talked, it was about Tokyo; Yasogami; Ren’s cat, Morgana. Random fluffy shit.

Ren’s project took shape over the course of his first few shifts, lumpy and weird but not half-bad, for a first attempt. When it was done, it actually looked like a black and white cat, which was more than most people could say.

“Nice one,” Kanji said, examining it. “You want to start something else?”

“Please.”

***

Ren had been on the job maybe two weeks before he got his first customer. Kanji was working on yet another round rabbit (people were nuts for the dang things) and Ren was counting the money in the register when two old ladies came in. Kanji recognized them.

“Hey, Ida-san,” he said, waving. “Ura-san.”

“Kanji!” said Ida, beaming. “How are you? How’s your mother?”

“Fine, and fine. She’s not here today.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I always look forward to seeing her.”

“You’ll tell her we came by, won’t you?” Ura said.

“Sure.”

“I’m just picking up some more wool. I’m going to knit my granddaughter a sweater this year.”

“And I’m still planning my quilt,” Ida said. “You know me, always the slowpoke.”

“Well, if you need help, holler,” Kanji said. “Ren’n I can give you a hand.”

Kanji could have sworn he felt a chill, so stark on his skin that he blinked and looked around. Middle of May, the wind shouldn’t’ve been that cold; and the shop door was firmly closed.

“That was weird,” he said, rubbing his arms. “You feel that?”

Both women were staring at Ren, who was focused on the cash register. His ears were turning pink.

“Guys?” Kanji said.

“Oh,” Ida said, startled. “I’m so sorry, dear, what did you say?”

“It got cold in here all of a sudden, is all. You feel that?”

“I’m sure I didn’t, dear.” Ida tugged Ura’s sleeve, and together they bustled off to find what they needed.

A few minutes later they reappeared in front of Kanji. “All done!” Ura chirped.

“Oh, cool,” Kanji said, flapping at the counter. “Ren’ll check you out. You got this, right?” he asked Ren, who nodded.

But when Kanji turned back to Ida and Ura, their smiles were weird. Glassy, almost.

“Ah,” Ida said. “Actually, dear, would you mind doing it yourself?”

Kanji blinked. “Huh?”

“Well,” said Ura, “you see, that young man can’t have been here that long. We’d much rather have someone with more experience take care of us.”

Kanji’s eyebrows pinched together. “Ren’ll do fine.”

“I’m afraid we must insist,” said Ida. “Please?”

Sighing, Kanji hopped off his stool. Ren stepped aside, his face blank, and went to straighten the piles of yarn that Ura had picked through.

It was an easy transaction. Ida bought some fabric, Ura two skeins of dark blue yarn. In a flash they were bowing their way out the door.

Once they were gone, Ren turned around and put his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said quietly.

“Eh, it’s not your fault,” Kanji said, waving him off. “They remember when I was in diapers, so they think it’s cute to—”

“Tatsumi-san,” said Ren. “That’s going to keep happening as long as I’m here.”

Kanji stared at him. He wasn’t the most perceptive guy, but even he could tell by the stiff, broken lines of Ren’s shoulders that he wasn’t happy.

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“They didn’t want me to serve them,” Ren said, slow and patient, “because I’m a felon.”

Kanji blinked. He blinked again.

And then he slammed his palm on the counter. “Mother _fucker_!”

Ren jumped.

“Goddamn it,” Kanji snarled, shaking out his hand. “I should’a known! God, the stupid people in this stupid town. Everybody’s always up everybody else’s ass for shit they did years ago, or shit they didn’t do—”

“I’m grateful to your mother for hiring me,” Ren said, lifting his chin, “but if that’s how people are going to react, then I think—”

“Shut up,” Kanji said, pointing at him. “You shut your face. They got no right to judge you, whatever happened. I don’t care if you shot the fuckin’ Emperor. You’re tryin’ to do right now, an’ they owe it to you to give you a chance. Next time they come in here, I’m not checkin’ ‘em out. You’re gonna do it, and they’re gonna like it.”

Ren opened his mouth, closed it. “Tatsumi-san—”

“Don’t call me that, I’m like three years older’n you. Call me Kanji. Siddown and work on your—” Kanji squinted at the lumpy mass of wool at Ren’s workstation. “Other cat?”

“Fox,” Ren murmured.

“Fox. Right. You should make the head narrower,” Kanji added, snatching up his own needle. “More pointy.”

Ren stood there.

“That’s an order, Amamiya!” Kanji barked, and Ren scrambled to obey.

***

After that, Kanji thought things were going pretty well for the kid until he walked into the shop with a big old bruise on his face. He’d covered it with makeup, but Kanji spotted it instantly.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, leaping up.

Ren stopped. “Uh—”

“Somebody _hit_ you?” Kanji said, grabbing Ren’s chin and turning his head so he could see better. Yeah, they definitely had, square on the jaw. Jesus! “Who did this? What happened?”

Ren gently pushed Kanji’s hand away. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

“You don’t tell me what happened,” Kanji said, narrowing his eyes, “I’ll make you reorganize the stock room.”

Ren blanched. The “stock room” was the tiny, overstuffed room at the back of the shop, simultaneously a storage area for bolts and boxes of materials and Kanji’s mother’s office. The area around her desk was clean, but the rest of it was a wild jumble of cardboard and fabric just waiting to collapse.

“You wouldn’t,” Ren whispered.

“Try me!”

Ren scrubbed his palms down his face—smudging the makeup, revealing a flash of mottled skin that made Kanji’s blood boil—and sighed. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he said.

Apparently, he’d been getting grief from a couple of kids at school. They’d pushed him around, tripped him, generally tried to rough him up. He’d ignored them. But that weekend, at the school camp-out, they’d decided to attack him for real, and so he’d fought back. Thus the bruise.

“But it’s fine,” Ren added, shrugging. “I scared them off. Hopefully they’ll leave me alone now.”

Then he looked at Kanji, and took a step backward.

In the TV world, Kanji probably would’ve been glowing. As it was he felt like he was floating, lifted off the ground by the force of his rage. His hands were clenched so tight that he might've been bruising his own fingers; he could hear his teeth squeaking inside his skull, the tendons groaning in his neck.

“Those little _pricks_ ,” he spat. “Who are they?”

“Wh—”

“Names! Gimme names.”

“What are you going to do?” Ren asked, wide-eyed. Had nobody ever gotten pissed for him before? The thought ratcheted Kanji’s blood pressure even higher.

“ _Names_ , Amamiya,” he growled.

Nakamura, Kasai, Oshima. O-ho- _ho._ Those punks. Kanji knew how to deal with them.

***

First, he went to Junes. Teddie was in the soap aisle, humming while he arranged an armful of bottles on a shelf.

“Hey, Ted!” Kanji called.

Teddie turned, brightened. “Kanji-kun!” he cried, nearly dropping the bottles as he bounded over. “It’s nice to see you! What’re you here for? Do you need—” He drew himself up, eyes shining—“ _my help_ finding something?”

“Uh, naw,” Kanji said. Teddie deflated slightly, so he hurried to add, “I need your help! Just not findin’ anything.”

Teddie reinflated, bony chest straining his apron. “Leave it to me! What can I do?”

“There’s a guy workin’ here named Oshima, isn’t there? High school kid?”

“Yup. Shoji Oshima, stocker,” Teddie replied promptly. “Why?”

“Word is,” Kanji said, crossing his arms, “he’s been bullying a kid at school. He even tried to hit him.”

Splotchy color bloomed in Teddie’s cheeks. “What? That’s unforgivable!”

“Right? That’s what I said.”

“Don’t you worry, Kanji,” Teddie said, clenching his fists, sending several bottles tumbling to the floor. “I’m on the case. He’ll rue the day he was born! Or at least the day he started working here.”

Kanji clapped him on the shoulder. “Knew I could count on you, Ted.”

***

Yukiko was next. The Amagi Inn was due for another textile order, and when she came in to place it, Kanji leaned across the counter toward her. She leaned away, looking faintly alarmed.

“So listen,” Kanji said. “There’s a lady named Kasai at the inn, right?”

Yukiko blinked. “Kasai-san? What about her?”

“She’s got a high school kid, doesn’t she?”

“Yes! He’s a third-year at Yasogami High.” Yukiko tapped her chin. “What was his name? I know she told me—”

“I got a part-timer workin’ here,” Kanji said. “Ren Amamiya. You heard about him?”

Yukiko blinked again, softened. “I have,” she said. “It was nice of your mother to take him on. We would have, at the inn, but we didn’t have any openings...”

Kanji flapped his hand. “Eh, it’s nothin’. Look. He walked in here the other day with a bruise on his face, like somebody popped him one.” Yukiko covered her mouth. “I guess some guys at school have been givin’ him shit, and they tried to beat him up durin’ the camp-out.”

“Kanji, that’s horrible! Has he told—”

“Apparently,” Kanji added, “one of ‘em was Kasai’s kid.”

Yukiko’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“Isn’t that _interesting_ ,” she said, low and silky. “I’ll have to tell his mother right away.”

***

[CHATLOG. Kanji to Chie, 6/14/XX, 4:12PM]

 **Kanji** Hey Chie, you still talk to Aika at all?

 **Chie** Yeah, sometimes  
 **Chie** Why?

 **Kanji** Her kid brother goes to Yasogami, right?

 **Chie** Uhhhhhh  
 **Chie** I think so  
 **Chie** Yeah, I guess he’d be that age now. Whyyyy are you asking?

 **Kanji** He’s been picking on somebody at school. The kid works at our shop. Guess Nakamura and his buddies have been harassing him since the beginning of the year.

 **Chie**!!!  
 **Chie** What the hell!!!  
 **Chie** That little shit!  
 **Chie** I’ll tell Aika, she’ll knock some sense into him

 **Kanji** Thanks. I’m just trying to give this kid some breathing room  
 **Kanji** I think he needs it.

 **Chie** Aw Kanji, this is really nice of you!

 **Kanji** I can be nice!

 **Chie** I know! We know 😊 We just weren’t sure YOU knew.

***

Couple of weeks later, Kanji glanced over at Ren and said, “Those guys at school given you any more shit?”

Ren paused, apparently thinking. “No,” he said. He didn’t look around, but he sounded surprised. “No, they haven’t.”

Kanji smirked, and went back to work.

***

Kanji didn’t see Ren for most of the summer. He was out of town. “I’m going camping with some friends from Tokyo,” he’d said, grinning. “It’s gonna be fun.”

And apparently it was. When Ren got back, he walked taller, smiled bigger. He and his friends had been all over the place—Sendai, Sapporo, Fukuoka, Okinawa, Kyoto—and he had six hundred stories to tell. It was the most Kanji had ever heard him talk. Every shift, Ren found an excuse to light up and say, “When we were in—”

Eventually, Ren went back to school. A few days a week, he came into the shop to unpack deliveries, organize the shelves, dust and sweep. When they had customers, he helped them out. During his downtime, he needle-felted with Kanji. He was getting pretty good; Kanji was thinking about asking him to help out with his online store. It seemed like he’d finally found his footing.

Then the dudes in suits showed up.

The first time they came in, Kanji barely noticed. He figured they were tourists or something; maybe businessmen from Okina who’d decided to traipse out to the sticks for a laugh. He didn’t expect them to buy anything, and they didn’t. They were in and out in five minutes.

The second time was the same: they moseyed in, wandered around, and moseyed back out, so quickly and quietly that Kanji hardly saw them.

It wasn’t until their third visit, in October, that he realized they were _the same guys_. Even then, he only caught on right as they were leaving, so he didn’t get a good look at them.

When they dropped by again at the beginning of November, Kanji studied them as close as he could without tipping them off. They were both bulky, stocky. One of them had pale eyes; a flat, square nose; and shoulders that strained his suit at the seams. The other wore sunglasses that hid most of his face, apart from his mouth, thin-lipped and wryly twisted. He had a neck like a bull’s.

Kanji didn’t get it. Were they military guys, maybe? They couldn’t’ve been cops; cops were never that fit. And what were they doing in his store?

They were gone before he got the chance to ask. He didn’t hear Ren’s sigh of relief.

The shit hit the fan a couple weeks later.

This time, the dudes walked in like they owned the place, or thought they should. The one in sunglasses offered Kanji a smile, rubbing his hands together.

“Hello!” he said in a deep, booming voice. “It’s cold out there!”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Kanji said, glancing past him at the flat-nosed guy, who sauntered toward the fabric samples on the far wall. “Can I help you with somethin’?”

“Just looking,” said Flat-Nose, shrugging one shoulder.

“I actually need a hand,” Sunglasses said, stepping sideways to block Kanji’s view. “Could I ask your advice?”

“I mean, yeah,” said Kanji reluctantly, sliding off his stool. “What’s up?”

“Well, you see, my wife has this chair. Dark wood, with a red cushion that’s got some kind of fancy embroidery on it. It’s a family heirloom. Only, the cushion’s breaking down, and we need to replace the fabric. But—” He smiled again, his whole face creasing at the corners—“I don’t know the first thing about upholstery. Got any ideas?”

By now, Flat-Nose had sidled over to the counter and was flipping through the brochure rack. Inches away, Ren kept his eyes down, fixed on the wool he was felting.

“I mean...” Kanji rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really know much, either. You probably wanna talk to my ma. I’ll get her.”

He poked his head into the back room. “Hey, Ma? I got a customer with a question.”

His mother bustled out and over to Sunglasses. “How can I help?”

Kanji hovered behind her, watching Sunglasses. He seemed decent enough; Kanji didn’t expect him to fly off the handle or anything. Flat-Nose, on the other hand—

Wait, where was Flat-Nose?

Kanji looked around, and tensed. He was still standing at the counter, but now he’d propped his elbow on it and was leaning close to Ren. As Kanji watched, the guy’s lips moved, forming words too quiet for Kanji to hear. Ren didn’t react, but his ears reddened. Grinning—no, Kanji didn’t like it, didn’t like the awful spread of it on Flat-Nose’s face, it was a _leer_ —Flat-Nose leaned closer, muttered something else. A muscle flickered in Ren’s jaw.

Kanji wasn’t exactly quick on the uptake, but a nasty suspicion coiled in his stomach, not attached to any idea in particular but making his mouth go sour. He didn’t like this, these dudes scoping the place for weeks and then splitting Kanji and his mom off from Ren. What could Flat-Nose have to say to the kid, anyway? Nothing good: Ren had ducked his head now, the color draining from what Kanji could see of his face, and his hands were shaking, automatically driving the needle in, in, into the roving—

“Hey,” Kanji said, just as Flat-Nose spoke again.

Ren jerked backward like he’d been shocked. His needle slipped; it was probably inevitable; it sank into Ren’s thumb, the flash of blood very bright against his grey skin. Gasping, Ren dropped the wool and the needle and stared at his hand, at the fine crimson line running down his thumb.

“ _Hey_!” Kanji barked.

Flat-Nose whipped around, his expression flickering from startled to neutral and then to alarmed, because Kanji was charging toward him. It was the closest he’d come to actually hitting somebody in a long time; he could feel his arm tensing, his fingers closing. But he managed to reroute the impulse into a hard shove to Flat-Nose’s chest that sent him staggering backward.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, huh?” Kanji demanded, pushing him again. “What’d you say to him?”

Flat-Nose opened his mouth to answer, but another shove cut him off.

“You think you can come in here and creep on people like that? Who d’you think you are?”

Flat-Nose’s back hit the wall. Kanji seized his collar, hauled him up nose-to-nose, and shook him until his eyes rolled in his head. “I asked you a question! Who are you? What is this? What do you want?”

“Easy, now,” said Sunglasses, grabbing Kanji’s shoulder. Kanji spun on his heel, dragging Flat-Nose almost off his feet.

“Back off, pal,” Kanji snarled. “You’re on my shitlist too.”

“ _I’m_ just looking to buy some fabric,” Sunglasses said, raising his hands. “If my friend was a little forward—”

“ _Forward—_ he’s _seventeen_!” Kanji bared his teeth at Flat-Nose, who was scrabbling feebly at Kanji’s hand on his shirt. “You got no business flirtin’ with him!”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Flat-Nose snapped. “I was making conversation.”

“Bull _shit_!” Kanji pointed at Ren, who was huddled against the wall with his eyes shut and his teeth clenched tight. “Fuckin’ look at him! You _traumatized_ him!”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Get out,” Kanji said, flinging Flat-Nose away. He stumbled, flailing, and barely managed to catch his balance. Kanji resisted the urge to plant a foot in his ass and knock him over for real.

Sunglasses coughed a laugh. “I haven’t made my—”

“We don’t want your money,” Kanji spat. “ _Get out_.”

Flat-Nose straightened up, scowling, but Sunglasses smiled like nothing was wrong. Inclining his head, he turned and led Flat-Nose out of the shop.

With them gone, Kanji could actually hear Ren vibrating, his shoulders jostling against the wall; could hear Ren saying, very softly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“There’s absolutely no need to apologize,” said Kanji’s mother. She was dabbing Ren’s hand with her handkerchief, her fingers white around his trembling wrist. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Please try to relax.”

Ren’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, lowering his head. His breath rattled in his chest. “I’m okay.”

Kanji was used to feeling like he’d missed something. He knew he was the dumbest member of his friend group; half the time he got lost midway through a conversation, or missed a cue, or upset somebody and didn’t realize it until they told him days later. Rise and Yosuke were always fussing at him for doing or saying the wrong thing, and he was always baffled. Yu’d said once that Kanji wasn’t so good at _reading people_ , which sounded right: he didn’t know what signals to look for, what clues to pay attention to. Yu had said he could get better with practice, but he wasn’t sure how to practice, either. At this point, apologizing for putting his foot in his mouth or his head up his ass was the best he could do.

So the fact that he could read Ren now, so clearly, meant that Ren was seriously upset. He was still shaking, his teeth audibly clacking; when Kanji’s mother let go of his hand, he curled it into a fist. His hair had fallen forward to hide his face, but Kanji had seen it in those seconds before he lowered his head, and he’d gone _gray_ , like an overcast sky. Kanji was almost glad he couldn’t see Ren’s eyes. The rest of him was scary enough.

 _Scary_. Yeah. That was a good word for the squirming, clawing feeling in Kanji’s stomach. Kanji got scared a lot more often than people gave him credit for, and he’d never quite figured out how to stop. 

Underlying the fear was—yeah, anger: Kanji was pissed at those dudes for freaking Ren out. But there was something else too. The sour taste in his mouth had never gone away; a deep darkness yawned in his chest. Something had _happened_ to Ren to make him like this. Someone had _done something_ to him. Maybe those guys, or maybe somebody else. Kanji couldn’t begin to imagine what it had been, or how _bad_ it had been, to make him act this way.

He didn’t want to imagine it, either.

“Who were they,” he said.

Wrong question, once again; way to go, Kanji; Ren’s limbs locked up, and then another huge shudder unlocked them, bowing him forward. “I—can’t—”

“It’s okay,” Kanji said hurriedly, relieved, and then ashamed. “You don’t have to say.”

“I think you’d better go home, my dear,” Kanji’s mother said.

Ren shook his head, a one-two jerk. “No, I just—need a minute—”

“I insist,” she said firmly.

“There’s no arguin’ with her,” Kanji put in, trying to smile.

“Is there someone we can call? Someone who could walk with you?”

“No,” Ren said. He sounded—brittle. “There’s no one.”

Everything he _didn’t_ say, all the shit bound up in those four words, made Kanji’s throat constrict until he almost couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll go with you,” he said. His mother shot him a proud, grateful smile. “Lemme get my coat.”

They walked in silence, stretched tight as plastic film. Ren kept his eyes down, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He had always looked small and soft to Kanji, like a kitten, or a duckling, but he’d never looked _fragile_ before. Kanji was afraid he might shatter if the wind hit him the wrong way.

Should Kanji talk to him? Probably not. In Kanji’s experience, talking was never the right answer. But this silence didn’t feel right, either. Ren seemed like he was collapsing from the inside out.

Kanji really wished Yu was here. He’d know what to do.

What _would_ Yu do?

Straighten his spine. Draw back his shoulders. Put one hand in his pocket, like that. Give Ren that _look_ , like he could see straight through him, right down to the bone. And then he’d say—

“What’re you doing?”

Kanji nearly tripped. Ren was staring at him.

“Uhh,” Kanji said. “Tryin’ somethin’?”

“You, uh,” Ren said. His lips twitched. “You look like you have to poop.”

A blush flamed from Kanji’s toes all the way to the tips of his ears. “I don’t!” he sputtered. “An’—an’ I don’t look like I do, either!”

Ren started laughing. All of the bad feelings flooded out of Kanji at the sound, and especially at the sight: Ren threw his head back, dropped his shoulders, narrowed his eyes to cheerful half-moons. Kanji didn’t join in, but he grinned, savoring the moment while it lasted.

Afterward, Ren seemed better. His body was relaxed; the color was back in his face.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

“It’s cool.”

Another silence descended, but this one was easy, warm. When Kanji spoke again, he didn’t break it so much as lean into it.

“If you wanna talk about it,” he said, carefully, “ever, I can listen.”

Ren’s breath caught. He held it for a second, tense; and then he let it out slowly and deliberately.

“Those guys are cops,” he said. His eyes were unfocused, distant. “Or spooks, or something. I had a run-in with them in Tokyo last year. When I left, I thought they were done with me, but I guess not. Since I got back from my trip, they’ve been showing up around town. Following me. Keeping tabs on me.”

“Bastards,” Kanji bit out, knuckles creaking as he clenched his fists. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

Ren shrugged. “Most days I can ignore them. But today—”

He broke off. Seemed to withdraw into himself.

“That one guy talked to you,” Kanji said. “What’d he say?”

Ren pursed his lips. “Just—some bullshit. It doesn’t matter.”

“Whatever it was, it fucked you up royal.”

“I’m sorry.” Ren rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I didn’t want—to cause you trouble. I never wanted—”

Kanji was shocked to see the redness building around Ren’s eyes, the sheen glittering across his eyelashes.

“Kid,” he said, reaching out, hesitating, finally gripping Ren’s shoulder. It felt very frail. Bony. “Hey. This wasn’t your fault.”

Ren snorted.

“No, it wasn’t!” Kanji shook him a little, almost knocking him off balance. “Look, I told you already, it doesn’t matter what you did as long as you’re on the straight’n narrow now. Those guys have no right to keep making you feel bad.”

“They’re never going to stop,” Ren said, low and dull. The same awful certainty rang in Kanji’s chest, squeezing his lungs. “They’re never going to leave me alone.”

As usual, Kanji didn’t know what to say. He let go of Ren, stuffed his hand back into his pocket, brooded. There had to be something he could do to help. He’d helped Ren before, hadn’t he? Everybody who came into the shop was nice to him now. Ida had even shown him her new quilt block, like they were friends. Nakamura, Kasai, and Oshima hadn’t so much as sniffed in his direction since June. Kanji had made that happen. He’d convinced Ida and Ura to give Ren a chance, and he’d gotten his friends to intervene with those idiots.

Who did he know that could fix this?

“This is me,” Ren said, stopping in front of one of the dozens of identical houses. The only thing distinguishing it from its neighbors was the red archway over the door.

“Listen,” Kanji said. “I wanna help you out.” Ren blinked. “I know some folks who might be able to pull some strings. One of my friends, they’re a private eye. They don’t have like, a ton of clout, but they work for—”

 _There_ it was. Kanji stood up straight, grinning.

“I know somebody _in the government_ ,” he said. “Well, kinda. She really works more _with_ the government, if you know what I mean.” Ren frowned. “Like, she’s got her own thing going, but she helps them when—anyway, I bet she could talk to somebody for you. Get these dudes to back off.”

He was beaming, almost floating, all set to pat himself on the back for a job well done. But Ren shook his head.

“That’s really nice of you,” Ren said, managing somehow to smile, and to make it convincing. “ _Really_ nice. You’re a great guy, Kanji. But this is something I have to deal with on my own.”

Kanji rocked slowly back onto his heels. “Oh,” he said. “Well—okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Turning, Ren flashed another smile, bigger and stronger, over his shoulder. “I’ll see you Thursday. Please thank Tatsumi-dono for me.”

“She hates it when you call her that, y’know,” Kanji said, but Ren was already halfway to his front door, and merely lifted his hand without looking back.

***

[CHATLOG. Kanji to Yu, 11/20/XX, 5:55PM]

 **Kanji** Mitsuru WOULD help, right?

 **Yu** Honestly, I don’t know how much capital she has, or how much she’d want to spend on this person.  
 **Yu** It’s a bad situation, for sure.  
 **Yu** But if he asked you not to do anything, then you shouldn’t.

 **Kanji** rrrgh, I was afraid you’d say that.  
 **Kanji** You didn’t see him, man. He was a wreck. They can’t keep doing this to him.

 **Yu** I agree. But he specifically told you to stay out of it. Which means you should.  
 **Yu** If he wants to talk about it, let him talk. Maybe he’ll come around.  
 **Yu** And definitely kick those guys out if they show up at the shop again.

.  
.  
.

 **Kanji** Yeah. You’re right.

 **Yu** He’s lucky to have you on his side.  
 **Yu** What’s his name?

 **Kanji** Ren Amamiya.

 **Yu** Oh! Really? Huh.  
 **Yu** Nanako’s tutor is named Ren. I wonder if it’s the same guy

 **Kanji** It probably is, that ain’t exactly a popular name.  
 **Kanji** He’s Nanako’s tutor??

 **Yu** Yup. He’s been helping her with history  
 **Yu** I think Shu’s mentioned him too. They’re friends  
 **Yu** They had some kind of fight, though. I should ask him if they made up

 **Kanji** Shu who?

 **Yu** Just a kid I tutored a few years ago  
 **Yu** Sorry, I forget who knows who sometimes

***

Flat-Nose and Sunglasses didn’t come back. Ren didn’t offer any more details about what they’d done, but he seemed generally happier, like Kanji had taken something off his shoulders by listening to him. Kanji could be satisfied with that, mostly.

He finally roped Ren into helping him with his felting. This close to Christmas, he couldn’t keep up with the demand for cute keychains, so they spent most of Ren’s shifts churning out tiny cats, dogs, bunnies, and cows. Ren’s work was indistinguishable from Kanji’s now, which made him weirdly proud. He hadn’t taught Ren anything, really, but it was cool to see his own style reflected in Ren’s.

One afternoon in early December, the bell over the door chimed. Kanji didn’t look up, but Ren did, and called, “Good afternoon!”

“Hello,” said an extremely familiar voice, and Kanji leapt out of his skin.

He also leapt off the stool: actually hooked his heels into the middle rung and vaulted forward. The stool fell over; Kanji landed, staggered; and Naoto, squeaking, flung out their arms to catch him. Luckily—unluckily? luckily? unluckily?— _luckily,_ Kanji managed to reroute so he crashed into the display of festive scarves, instead of into Naoto. The entire thing tipped over with an impressive _boom_ , taking Kanji with it.

He lay there, facedown, clips and hooks digging into his chest, and wished the ground would swallow him.

“Are you okay?” Ren said, strained like he was trying not to laugh, and, “Are you all right?” Naoto gasped, high and worried. Of course they were worried. Kanji had beefed it for absolutely no reason.

“M’fine,” Kanji grumbled, getting to his feet.

Ren, biting his lips together, righted the display and set about straightening it. Taking a deep, steadying breath that rasped his throat, Kanji turned to look at Naoto.

“Your hair’s longer,” he blurted, because it was the first thing he noticed. (After their eyes, cast almost gray in the shop’s low lighting; and their flushed cheeks, brilliantly red. Chapped from the wind, right? Right.)

Blinking, Naoto touched their hair. It was still feathered across their forehead, fluffy where it framed their face, but the ends draped over their shoulders, gathered close by the big blue earmuffs hanging around their neck.

“Yes,” they said. “I’m...growing it out.”

“Oh, cool, that’s cool,” Kanji said, looking past them, over them, briefly down to register their outfit: a knee-length trenchcoat, checkerboarded with alternating royal and sky-blue squares. The narrow lapels were cinched tight at their throat _do not stare at their throat_ okay okay he could do this, he could still salvage this, just say something nice. “I like your coat.”

They blinked at it, toyed with one of its golden buttons. They were wearing pale grey gloves, fitted neatly to their slim fingers _stop staring at their fingers_.

“Thank you,” Naoto said.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Ren said, sliding into Kanji’s periphery. Kanji gratefully switched focus to him, and almost had to squint: he was _beaming_. “Are you Naoto Shirogane?”

Naoto’s fingers curled into a fist. “Yes,” they said, “I am.”

“The Detective Prince?” Ren asked, practically bouncing now.

“Oh,” Naoto said, wrinkling their nose. “I suppose so. I’m sorry, I never liked that moniker. Everyone who called me that refused to take me seriously.”

Ren’s smile went soft at the edges. “Yeah, that tracks,” he said, and then brightened again. “So you’re the O.G. The original.”

Naoto’s brow knitted. “The original?”

“You know! The one who started it all. The _First_ Detective Prince.”

“Was there another? I don't keep up with that sort of thing.”

Ren’s eyes shone. “God, he’d _hate_ that,” he breathed. “He’d hate that you didn’t know about him.”

Naoto turned back to Kanji, who felt a thrill of—call it panic; a bolt of lightning down his spine—as their gazes met. “Who is this?”

“Ren,” Kanji managed. “He works here part-time.”

“I see.”

“Ren Amamiya,” Ren supplied, and Naoto frowned at him. “I’m sorry to be so weird, it’s just—I’m a fan, I guess. I think you’re really cool.”

“Ren Amamiya,” Naoto muttered, like they were testing the sound. “I’ve heard that name before.”

Now it was Ren’s turn to frown, to draw back. “Ah.”

“Whatever you’ve heard, it ain’t true,” Kanji said, his nerves briefly chased away by indignation. “He’s a good kid.”

Naoto blinked awake.

“I’m sorry, I hope I haven’t insulted you,” they told Ren. “I simply...know your name, and I can’t recall where I heard it. It will come to me.”

Ren relaxed a fraction. “Oh. Okay.”

“How, uh,” Kanji said, and twitched when Naoto’s eyes flicked to him. “How long’re you in town? Just through New Year’s?”

“Actually, I was planning to stay a while. I’d like to spend some time with my grandfather.”

“Cool!” Kanji said, hoping his voice didn’t betray how high his heart had leapt. “Cool, cool, that’s cool. You’re the first one back. I mean, Ted and Yukiko’re always here, but you’re—uh, I don’t think Rise’s comin’ through this year? She’s got a tour or somethin’.”

“I heard,” Naoto said.

“An’ Chie’ll be back for New Year’s. But Yu an’ Yosuke’re—”

“Staying at school over their break, and coming back for good after finals,” Naoto said, smiling slightly. “I know.”

“You know,” Kanji said, half to himself. “Cool, cool.”

A pause, in which Kanji stared over Naoto’s left shoulder and they stared over his right. Ren glanced between them.

“Well, I should go,” Naoto said. Kanji felt a pang, but smothered it. “It was nice to meet you, Ren.”

“You too,” Ren said.

“Let’s get together soon,” they told Kanji, who coughed into his fist.

“Sure,” he said. “Course.”

And they scooted past him and out of the shop.

Heaving a sigh, Kanji bent to grab the stool. When he straightened up, Ren was standing there.

Kanji jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry,” said Ren. The hint of a smile played around his mouth. “Kanji—do you _like_ him?”

“ ‘Him?’ Who—” Kanji went icy cold and then scalding hot in quick succession. “ _Naoto_? No! Course not! They’re my friend!”

The hint shifted into a suggestion. “You do, don’t you.”

Turning away, Kanji set the stool down hard. “N-no way, man! I’ve known ‘em forever, there’s no way I—”

“You should tell them,” Ren said. Kanji could hear the smile in his voice.

“There’s nothin’ to tell,” Kanji retorted. “Where’d my roving go?”

“You threw it across the room when your ‘friend’ Naoto showed up.”

Ears burning, Kanji glared around the shop. “Can it, Amamiya. Help me look.”

“They like you too, you know.”

Kanji rounded on him, heart flying into his throat. “How d’you know?” he demanded. “How can you tell?”

Ren was grinning, hands in his pockets, hips rocked to one side. “They were blushing the whole time they were here.”

“That’s just cause it’s so cold out!”

“No, it’s not.”

“There’s _no way_ ,” Kanji said, scything both hands through the air. “No. Way.”

Ren perked up, snapping his fingers. “ _I_ know,” he said, while Kanji went back to looking for his project. “You should felt them something cute.”

“They don’t like cute shit,” Kanji grumbled.

“I bet they would if it came from you. Yeah! You make them something cute, and when you give it to them, you ask them on a date. Ask them out for Christmas Eve!”

Kanji turned his head so fast that his neck seized. “Ow, _shit_ —will you knock it off? This ain’t funny!”

“I’m not laughing,” Ren said, his smile softening again. “I’m serious, Kanji. They like you. You should ask them out.”

***

Kanji thought about it.

Truth was, he'd heard all this before. Everybody from Rise to fuckin’ Yukiko had said it: Naoto liked him, and he should ask them out. Which—hey, you know, if Naoto liked Kanji so much, how come _they’d_ never asked _him_ out? Why did Kanji have to do it?

“Because,” Yu had said once, smiling, “they’re as scared as you are.”

Scared. Was it possible for Naoto to be scared? Especially of something like that?

Well, shit.

Kanji took Ren’s advice. He’d make them something to show how he felt about them. Something that’d show them how he saw them.

He thought about it for days, worked on it for longer. And finally, when it was ready, he asked Naoto to meet him at Aiya for dinner. (He couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, and standing outside in the cold didn’t seem like a great idea.)

They agreed.

Kanji spent that whole day convinced he was having a heart attack. His stomach kept squirming around like it was trying to get away. He powered through. He wasn’t gonna chicken out now. One way or another, he was gonna tell Naoto how he felt. And if they didn’t like him back, well—

Well—

“Have fun,” his mother sang as he left the shop.

Naoto was waiting for him outside the restaurant, wearing the checkerboard coat again. Underneath it was a knee-length black skirt or dress, something that bared their black-stockinged calves, plunging down into low-heeled blue boots with gold buckles. Kanji slowed to admire the view, his mouth dry, his palms sweating in his pockets; and Naoto heard him coming, and turned around.

They smiled, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, and Kanji’s heart burst.

Kanji jerked the keychain out of his pocket, marched up to them, and held it out.

“This is for you,” he barked.

Naoto blinked at it. “For me?”

“Yeah.” Kanji shook it at them until they took it, carefully grasping the silver chain. “I wanted to make something that reminded me of you. This is it.”

It was a ram. It stood on four tiny hooves with its head upraised, its nose tilted toward the sky. Thick grooved horns curved across the back of its head, coming to rest in a spiral on either side of its neck. Its face and legs were gray and its wool a brilliant, electric blue, the same color that Sukuna-Hikona had been. It was small enough to balance neatly in Naoto’s palm, staring up at them through minute black eyes.

Naoto’s lips parted.

The silence lasted way longer than Kanji expected it to. He stared at Naoto, and they stared at the ram, and the simmering anxiety in Kanji's gut pitched to a boil.

“Say somethin’!” he snapped.

Naoto startled, met his gaze, wide-eyed and bewildered. “It’s...a sheep.”

“Well, yeah. I mean! No!” Kanji shook himself. “It’s a _ram_.”

“A male sheep,” Naoto said carefully. “I remind you of a male sheep?”

That sounded like a bad thing. “No! It’s, like—because you’re so—” Kanji punched his palm. “You know?”

Naoto’s eyebrows furrowed.

Kanji groaned. “This is already goin’ off the rails. It’s not that you’re a _sheep_. You always—it’s cool how you—you just blast through everythin’, you know?” He smacked his fist into his palm again, demonstrating. “No matter what’s standin’ in your way, you just—boom. Like a ram. No fear.” Naoto had gone very still, and their face very red. “It’s rad as hell. _You’re_ rad as hell.”

“Oh,” Naoto breathed, closing their fingers around the keychain.

“An’ so I wanted—to give you somethin’ to show you that—I think you’re rad as hell.” Kanji whacked his palm yet again, stopped, scratched the back of his neck. Something bad was writhing in his throat, dragging at his tongue. “If you don’ like it, I can—”

“No, no,” Naoto said hurriedly, clutching the ram to their chest like they thought he might take it away. “I like it.”

“—it wouldn’t be a big deal for me to make—”

Kanji stopped. Suddenly he felt like he was towering, like he and Naoto were perched on the planet shrunk down to the size of a marble.

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again, hoarse because he couldn’t breathe: “Y-yeah?”

Naoto smiled. Their eyes were sparkling, probably with tears, but Kanji couldn’t think too hard about that because then he’d start blubbering too. They took out their phone and fastened the charm to the case.

“There,” they said, holding it up. The ram spun gently at the end of its chain. “Thank you, Kanji.”

Now or never.

“D’you wanna go out for Christmas Eve?” Kanji blurted.

Naoto’s blush spread down their neck, matching Kanji’s, which tingled even in his fingertips.

“Well,” they said, looking down, fiddling with the keychain. “Well—”

“With me,” Kanji added, seized by a sudden terror that they’d misunderstand. “D’you want to go _with me_.”

“I understand,” Naoto said, glancing at him and then away. If their face got any redder, they were going to pass out. “I-I—um—would like that—very much.”

Kanji couldn’t believe it.

He couldn’t _believe it_.

For _years_ , he’d been tiptoeing around Naoto, thinking there was no way they could like him back. For years he’d been telling his friends they were bonkers for thinking Naoto might be interested in him. For years he’d been acting like a total idiot.

He’d wasted so much fucking time.

But now he was beaming so big that his cheeks hurt. He wanted to grab Naoto, kiss them, pick them up and swing them around. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to freak them out.

Instead, he let the balloon in his chest lift him onto his toes, and said, “Cool! That’s—that’s great!”

Naoto met his gaze, smiled shyly. “Is it?”

“Yeah, it’s—it’s _baller_.”

Naoto snorted, covered their mouth, started laughing. They had a light, beautiful, musical laugh, and it settled like a star in Kanji’s gut, illuminating him from the inside out. Eventually it bubbled upward into his mouth and he laughed too, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

They smiled at each other for a second after it tapered off. Then Naoto cleared their throat.

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Eh?”

“For our date,” Naoto said.

Kanji blinked. “Oh! Right! Uh, well, actually, I was kinda hoping you’d have an idea?”

Naoto tilted their head. “You…invited me on a date to nowhere?”

“No! No, course not, I just—” The blush was back, scorching Kanji’s skin. “I don’t know any nice places around, see, and you’ve been everywhere, so I thought maybe…”

Naoto softened. “I understand,” they said. “Hmm. Yes, I can think of a few locations that might suit. But—”

They bristled, checked their phone, and their eyes took on that sharp, hungry gleam Kanji lo—uhhhh— _liked_ so much.

“We’d better hurry if we want to get a reservation anywhere. Let’s go inside. You can look up the numbers and I’ll call…”

***

Kanji had heard the phrase _on cloud nine_ before, but he’d never really understood it until now.

For the next few days, he floated along on a bed of singing pink birds. Literally nothing could bring his mood down. Not the random texts from his friends congratulating him for finally popping the question; not the tiny, nagging fear that Naoto would realize they’d made a huge mistake. Nothing. He was utterly, blissfully happy.

Naoto seemed to be, too. They dropped by the shop every day, apparently just to see him, to smile at him. Somehow everything had changed, but also nothing had. Kanji didn’t feel like he was holding in a huge fart when Naoto was around anymore, but they could still talk about whatever and it felt right. It felt _good_.

Occasionally he still felt the urge to lean down and kiss them, but he hadn’t worked up the nerve yet.

The next time Ren came in, Naoto was there, telling Kanji about one of their recent cases. Ren paused in the doorway, glancing from Kanji to Naoto and back.

“Hey, Ren,” Kanji said.

“Ah,” Naoto said, turning. “Hello. I understand I have you to thank for this?”

They held up their phone. The ram rotated on its chain.

Ren grinned, shut the door behind him. “You took my advice,” he said to Kanji, padding over to look at the charm. “A ram, huh? Nice.”

“Yeah, thanks, man,” Kanji said, leaning on his elbows. “If not for you, I wouldn’t’a said anything for ages.”

“So are you two together, now?” Ren asked, shrugging off his coat.

Naoto went pink, and Kanji felt his ears burn. “Well,” they said, and “Uh,” he said.

Ren beamed. “That’s great! I’m really happy for you.”

Kanji rubbed his nose, and Naoto coughed.

“I truly appreciate the part you played,” Naoto said, inclining their head. “Thank you very much.”

“It was no big deal,” Ren said, waving them off. “I just called it like I saw it.”

“Still,” Naoto said. “Sincerely. Thank you.”

Ren shrugged, smirked at Kanji, and went to put his coat away.

“Anyway, you were sayin’?” Kanji said to Naoto.

“Ah! Yes. I was able to discern that—”

Kanji hardly noticed Ren coming back, tying on his apron, wandering over to join them at the counter. He listened, hands in his pockets, head cocked, while Naoto finished their story. It ended well, of course. It always did.

“Man, you’re so cool,” Kanji sighed. Naoto sputtered. “You make this stuff sound easy.”

“W-well, of course it’s difficult work—”

“Yeah, but you’re so _smart_. Nothin’ gets past you.”

“Shirogane-san,” Ren said, cutting off Naoto’s protest.

“Er,” they said, blinking at him. “You may call me Naoto, if you’d like.”

“Naoto, then.” Ren took a deep breath. “This is going to sound…I swear I didn’t say what I said to Kanji to try to get on your good side, or anything. But…since it all worked out so well…I wonder if you’d be willing to do me a favor.”

Naoto frowned at Kanji, who shrugged, clueless as ever.

“That depends on the favor,” Naoto said.

Ren shut his eyes. Breathed in, out. Opened them. Naoto stiffened, and Kanji’s jaw dropped.

Ren had gone sharp and firm and commanding, ablaze and alight as Kanji had never seen him before.

He looked like a Leader.

He looked like Yu.

“A friend of mine,” he said, paused, gritted his teeth. “A friend of mine went missing last year. I…think he’s probably dead.”

Kanji’s jaw dropped farther, and Naoto’s knuckles whitened on the counter.

“But I need to know for sure. If he’s dead, then—I just need to know. And if he’s alive…I want to make sure he’s okay.”

Ren took his hands out of his pockets, balled them into fists, stood up straight. He was still shorter than Kanji but, suddenly, not by much.

“Would you be willing to look for him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you want to have morgana show up so kanji can fawn over him but realize you can’t because kanji could hear him talk…sigh


	3. ivy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **cw:** references to suicide and self-harm; homophobia

After summer break, Nanako Dojima’s first task was: find a tutor.

Nobody else seemed to think she needed one. Her dad was happy with her grades as long as she worked hard, and all her teachers insisted she was doing fine. The problem was, she didn’t want to do _fine_. She wanted to do _well_. And history—dumb, boring, stupid history—was holding her back.

So, she needed a tutor. She got her dad to agree and posted a flyer on the bulletin board in town. Soon, she had three candidates, two boys and a girl.

The first two candidates were disappointing. They both seemed smart enough, and the girl was really friendly, but they failed the ultimate test. Nanako knew that most twelve-year-olds wouldn’t have hired a tutor on their own; she expected the inevitable question: “So why isn’t your mom or dad with you?” And she was ready, lightning-quick, with her answer: “Oh, my mom died a long time ago, and my dad works a lot, so I’m doing this by myself.”

The boy looked horrified. The girl went pale. Nanako thanked them for their time and sent them on their way.

At first, the third candidate didn’t seem very promising either. He was kind of a mess: hair all in his face, shirt wrinkled, hands in his pockets even once he sat down under the gazebo with her. The only thing that gave her hope were his eyes, dark and thoughtful behind his glasses, surveying her with a curiosity she’d only seen in her big bro.

“Hi,” Nanako said. “I’m Nanako.”

“Nice to meet you,” the boy said. She’d expected a murmur or a whisper, but he had a deep, resonant voice. “I’m Ren.”

“I know.” Nanako cleared her throat, folded her hands in her lap, and smiled at him. “So.”

He was nice. He answered all of her questions seriously, concise but never rude. He’d spent some time in Tokyo, he said, and been top of his class there; at Yasogami, his grades were good, but he’d only done so-so on his last round of exams. He liked history. She believed him, because he smiled when he said it, and he hadn’t done that yet. It was small, shaky, like it had taken him by surprise. Nanako remembered Yu smiling like that when he’d first moved to Inaba.

And then the moment of truth:

“Can I ask you something?” Ren said, tilting his head.

“Sure.”

“How come you’re doing this by yourself?”

It was the question she’d expected, but the way he phrased it knocked her for a loop.

“Oh,” Nanako said, rallying. “Well, my mom died when I was little, and my dad’s busy with work, so it’s up to me.” Ren blinked once, twice; opened his mouth, closed it. “Besides, I want to do it. Nobody’s making me.”

Ren studied her for a second, thoughtful. “This is really important to you.”

Nanako nodded fiercely. “Yes, it is.”

“I’d be happy to help,” Ren said. “If you’d like me to.”

And that was that. The tension fell away like broken eggshell. Nanako relaxed, unclasped her hands, beamed.

“That’d be great,” she said.

***

And it was. It really, really was.

Nanako was nervous about their first session, but Ren seemed totally unruffled, for all that he still looked like he’d slept under a bench the night before. As soon as Nanako explained that they were studying the Sengoku period, Ren brightened.

“So you know about Goemon, then,” he said.

She didn’t. Ren’s face broke into a huge smile.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Ren translated Nanako’s dry textbook and dull notes into richly embroidered tales full of intrigue and excitement. She listened eagerly, often with her hands clutched to her mouth over some new betrayal. Here and there, Ren peppered in important events or dates Nanako would be asked about on her tests, but mostly he focused on the details that made all of these flat faces _human_.

For Nanako, that was the key. The clans, which she’d always found so confusing, turned out to be her favorite things; she was thrilled whenever someone from one clan showed up in the story of another, and she loved to hear how they’d schemed and plotted against each other.

And, armed with the knowledge he’d given her, she was able to pay closer attention in class. She dutifully wrote down all the dates and names, but spent the rest of her time listening for interesting stuff about the men (and women! Especially the women!) who made up Japanese history.

The days that she could surprise even Ren with some new detail were the best days. “Ah, I didn’t know that!” he’d say. “So does that mean—”

But the _very best_ day came one month later, when Nanako aced her first quiz of the semester. She waited until their next meeting to tell Ren so she could see his reaction. He didn’t disappoint: he grinned.

“I knew you could do it,” he said.

***

Unfortunately, that high didn’t last long.

Not because of school. History had become one of her favorite subjects, and she kept meeting with Ren mostly because she liked talking about it with him. No, her next problem was a social one: her friend Mina.

Mina had transferred to Nanako’s school at the beginning of the year. Soon, she and Nanako had figured out that they liked all the same stuff: Featherman Neo, Buchimaru (the reboot of the old series), pop music, drawing. They’d hung out a lot, and eventually Nanako had introduced Mina to her other friends, and then all of them had hung out together.

But it hadn’t lasted. Nanako didn’t know exactly when or why the atmosphere surrounding Mina changed, but suddenly everyone seemed to be avoiding her. Even Nanako’s friends, people she would’ve thought were better than that, hesitated whenever Nanako suggested spending time with her. In class, if Mina got a question wrong, people laughed; which made her nervous, which made her get more questions wrong, which—

“I don’t get it,” Nanako said at lunch one day, while Mina picked miserably at her food. “You didn’t do anything. Why is everybody acting like this?”

“Nanako,” Mina said. “It’s because I’m Korean.” And then her face crumpled, and she sniffed and rubbed her nose. “I mean, I’m—I am and I’m not, I was born here, but—”

Nanako had never known that being Korean, or Korean-Japanese, or whatever you wanted to call it, was a problem for some people. She felt stupid for not knowing, because everyone else seemed to, and it seemed to matter _a lot_. By the end of their first semester, most kids outright ignored Mina; a handful were polite, but cold; an even smaller handful, Nanako included, stayed friendly.

And five girls in particular decided to make Mina’s life a living hell.

Their names were Sato, Gotoda, Hikichi, Oe, and Uekusa. Nanako had been going to school with them for as long as she could remember. They’d been tightly bound in an impenetrable unit almost from the beginning. Mostly, their orbit had never crossed Nanako’s, and if it had, they’d been nice enough. Until now.

It started with the giggling in class and progressed to casually knocking Mina’s drink over at lunch. To pointedly crashing into her in the hallway and then saying, wide-eyed, “Oh! I didn’t even see you there!” To tripping her in gym, jostling her on the way to school, hissing words that Nanako had never heard before but that made Mina cringe and clutch her stomach like it hurt.

At first, when Nanako saw these things happening, she tried to intervene. But Mina whispered, “Please don’t say anything, it only makes it worse,” so she was forced to stand by and watch them be cruel, over and over and over. She did what she could: put herself bodily between them, talked louder to drown out their insults, fed Mina the answers in class so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.

Over the summer, away from their influence, Mina had seemed happier. But the bad started up again when they went back for fall semester, and all of the blows landed twice as hard. Mina walked in a permanent hunch, always prepared to shy away from this jeer or that kick. She barely talked, even when she and Nanako were alone. She didn’t watch Featherman or Buchimaru anymore, and she stopped drawing. She was just...grey, and quiet, and sad.

The first time she mentioned hurting herself, Nanako couldn't believe it.

“You know, they’d be sorry if I was dead,” Mina mumbled, mostly to herself, after the girls had barreled past Nanako and Mina walking home from school.

Nanako went cold. “What?”

Mina blinked like she’d forgotten Nanako was there. “Nothing.”

But saying it once made it easier to say again, and again, and again, always under her breath like an afterthought and always swiftly denied if Nanako reacted. Coupled with the fine, slim cuts Nanako had noticed on Mina’s underarms in the locker room, being around Mina gave her an increasingly sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Which in turn churned up guilt, bitter as acid, because Mina was her _friend_ , and how could Nanako be so desperately unhappy when Mina was clearly struggling with something much worse? How could Nanako wish, even once, that she could stop hanging out with Mina without feeling like she was abandoning her?

It didn’t help that Nanako’s other friends never wanted to talk to or about Mina. It didn’t help that her dad was busy with a case, and never home. It didn’t help that Yu was away at school, no doubt busy too, finishing up his final semester. All Nanako had was schoolwork, and tutoring, and Mina, Mina, Mina. She was tired all the time.

She hadn’t realized how obvious it was until Ren said, one day, “Nanako. Is everything okay?”

Nanako jumped. She’d been staring at her notebook, pen in hand but motionless, not even listening to what Ren was saying. When she met his gaze, his eyebrows were knitted, his dark eyes sharp enough to cut.

She burst into tears.

“Oh,” Ren said, while Nanako dropped her face into her hands and cried. “Oh. Um.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay. Um.” A rustling, barely audible over her own sobbing. “I think I have some tissues...”

He did, in a little travel packet. Nanako went through the entire thing, first out of shame and then out of frustration and then just because it felt good, actually, to cry. Ren stayed where he was, waiting, hands on his knees.

“It’s my friend,” Nanako croaked finally, wiping her cheeks on her sleeves. “Mina.”

She didn’t look at him while she talked, so she didn’t see his expression harden, flint to stone to diamond. She didn’t see his grip on his legs tighten to bruising. And when she finished, she didn’t see him inhale slow or exhale careful.

“Nanako,” he said. “You have to tell an adult.”

Sniffing, Nanako shook her head. “She doesn’t want me to. She says it’d only make it worse.”

“She might be right,” Ren said, startling her. “There’s probably nothing your teachers can do to make these girls stop. But if Mina’s talking about hurting herself—that’s serious. You have to try everything you can to help her. Right now that means telling an adult.”

He was right. But the knot loosening in her stomach leapt into her throat at the thought of telling her father. Nanako could imagine what he’d say: _What?! You mean this girl’s been suffering for months and you haven’t done anything about it?! I’m disappointed in you, Nanako. I thought I raised you better_.

“Is there anyone you trust to help with this?”

Well...

“My big bro,” she said at last, twisting her fingers together. “But he’s at school, he’s busy—”

“He’ll make time for this,” Ren said. “Trust me.”

***

[CHATLOG. Nanako to Yu, 10/4/XX, 4:24PM]

 **Nanako** Hey, big bro!  
**Nanako** I have something kind of important to talk about.  
**Nanako** Can we video chat tonight?

 **Yu** Sure. What time?

***

Just seeing Yu’s face, blurry at first but then soft and smiling, made Nanako feel better.

“Big bro!” she said, leaning closer to the screen. “Hi!”

“Hey,” Yu said, smile widening. “It’s good to see you. Yosuke’s here too.” Yosuke leaned into frame and waved. “He’s working on a paper. Is that okay, or should I put on headphones?”

Nanako felt a familiar pang at the thought of them sitting together without her. But she tamped it down.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind. Um—I really hope I’m not bothering you, or anything—”

“Never,” said Yu simply. Nanako blinked back a silly rush of tears. “What do you need?”

The story was easier to tell the second time, but she had to look down at her lap while she did it. She knew Yu wouldn’t judge her; he never had, for anything; but she hated the thought of disappointing him and hated even more the possibility of watching it grow on his face, watching his silver eyes turn flat and sad.

But when she lifted her head, it wasn’t disappointment she saw. Yosuke, crowded in against Yu’s shoulder, was frowning, his lips tight and thin. And Yu was—it would have been scary if she hadn’t seen it before, directed at Namatame in the Shadow World. He’d lowered his head to look at her through his bangs, jaw set, gaze steely.

“I’m really glad you told me about this,” he said quietly.

Nanako blinked hard again, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “It was Ren’s idea.”

“Ren?” said Yosuke. Yu reached over and picked up his phone.

“My tutor.”

“I’ll have to call Uncle,” Yu said. “He’ll be able to get in touch with Mina’s parents.”

Panic sparked in Nanako’s stomach. “But—”

“It’ll be okay,” Yu said, reading her mind as always. “I’ll talk to him.”

Yu would talk to him. He always listened to Yu. And—and this wasn’t about Nanako. It was about Mina. Slowly, she nodded.

“Hang out with Yosuke for a minute, okay?” Yu said. Nanako nodded again, so he passed his laptop to Yosuke and got up.

Yosuke smiled at her, only slightly forced. “So what else is news?”

At first, she didn’t think she had much to say. But before she knew it, she’d been talking for ages, and Yu was back, both of them listening closely. Then she asked what was new with them, and then it was getting late, and—

The front door opened. “I’m home,” her dad called.

Nanako’s head snapped up, bile surging into her throat.

“Don’t worry,” Yu murmured, while Yosuke said, “Hey, Dojima-san!”

“You still talking to them?” Ryotaro said, loosening his tie as he padded over to the couch. Sitting down beside Nanako, he offered a tired smile to the screen. “Hey guys. How’s it goin’?”

They recapped what they’d been telling Nanako, giving her the chance to try to calm down. Her heart was racing, her mouth dry.

Some part of her knew she was being unfair. Ryotaro hadn’t yelled at her in years; was all around nicer and more understanding, even though he still occasionally crawled up his own butt. But she was scared, always, that he would suddenly turn back into the person he’d been after her mother died. She was scared, especially, that she might _cause_ it.

“We’d better let you go, though,” Yu said, and Nanako was seized with the urge to beg him to come home, right then and there, hop a plane and fly back to Inaba tonight so she wouldn’t have to be alone with her dad and his disapproval. “Let me know how everything goes, okay, Nanako?”

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Bye.”

They hung up. Nanako switched off her tablet, set it aside, clenched her fists in her skirt.

“I talked to Mina’s parents,” Ryotaro said. Nanako listened carefully for the sharp edge that would give away his anger, but he seemed calm. “They were upset, but they’re gonna talk to Mina tonight and call the school tomorrow. See if they can figure something out.”

Nanako nodded. Her tongue had turned into a slug, fat and clammy.

The couch creaked as her dad turned toward her. “I really wish you’d told me about this sooner,” he said, and she stiffened, bracing for the inevitable crash of the rising wave.

“I know why you didn’t, though,” Ryotaro sighed, and when she lifted her head he was rubbing the back of his neck. “This stuff...it’s scary. I bet you felt like you’d be betraying Mina if you told anyone, huh?”

Nanako gaped at him. Ryotaro flashed her a crooked smile. “I was a kid once too, y’know.”

“Do you think it’ll get better now?” Nanako blurted. “Do you think they’ll be able to help?”

He sighed again, heavy and exhausted. “Honestly? I dunno. But I sure hope so. We’ll do everything we can.”

Nanako hadn’t realized how tightly the thread around her ribs was wound until it broke. She slumped, closed her eyes, sank back against the couch.

“Thank goodness,” she whispered.

A warm, solid weight draped across her shoulders, and Nanako jumped before she realized that it was her father’s arm, drawing her into a hug.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, oddly choked, and she sniffled and hugged him back.

***

Once again, the high didn’t last.

Mina wasn’t at school the next day, or the next. She didn’t answer any of Nanako’s messages. That weekend, Nanako opened her chat app and discovered that Mina’s profile had disappeared.

In desperation, she asked her dad to call Mina’s parents. He hung up the phone looking grim.

“She’s okay,” he said, avoiding Nanako’s gaze. “She just doesn’t want to talk right now.”

Nanako knew what that meant.

Still, on Monday, when Nanako saw Mina’s hunched shoulders ahead of her on the flood plain, she ran to catch up. “Mina!”

Mina stiffened and walked faster, but Nanako skidded up alongside her.

“Mina,” Nanako panted, peering at her. Her black hair had fallen forward to hide her face and her knuckles were white on the straps of her backpack. “Are you okay? I was worried—”

“Get a _clue_ , Nanako,” Mina said, spiking ice through Nanako’s chest.

“When I saw you deleted your account, I thought—”

“I didn’t delete my account,” Mina snapped, almost jogging now, her footsteps clanging in Nanako’s ears. “I blocked you.”

Nanako had guessed that already, but the confirmation still took her breath away. “Why would you do that?”

“Because!” Mina cried, stopping so fast that Nanako overshot her, had to spin around to face her. Mina’s cheeks were blotchy, her eyelids puffy. “You _told_ your _dad_? I asked you not to—”

“I was scared!” Nanako exclaimed. She could almost feel her knees knocking together, hear her teeth chattering. “You were being so scary. I thought you were going to—”

“ _Kill myself_?”

The way she said it, like it was glass breaking between her teeth, made Nanako’s heart hurt. Nanako opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“I trusted you,” Mina said, or whimpered; tears were flooding down her face. “I thought I could trust you.”

You could, Nanako thought, wishing her tongue would move. You can.

“We’re not friends anymore,” Mina said. She banged hard into Nanako’s shoulder as she pushed past. “Don’t talk to me.”

Nanako turned to watch her go, utterly numb.

***

The rest of that day and the next were a rollercoaster.

Nanako went back to sitting with her regular friends at lunchtime. They tried to get her to tell them what was wrong, but eventually gave up. She felt sick. More than once, sitting in class, she wanted to run to the bathroom and heave into the toilet; but every time she started to raise her hand, the feeling passed, leaving her cold and shivering. One of her teachers actually asked if she was okay, and still looked concerned when she said yes.

Despite everything, she kept an eye on Mina. Mina stared down at her desk in class, kept to herself in gym, disappeared during lunch and reappeared looking tearful. But her bullies gave her a wide berth, which Nanako noted with a sort of savage satisfaction. See? she found herself thinking at Mina’s bowed back. If you’d let me say something sooner, none of this would have happened.

Thoughts like this came and went in waves. Trudging home alone, trying not to stare at Mina several paces ahead of her; opening her chat app and noticing all over again that Mina’s name was gone; lying in bed, reviewing hours of conversations, looking for evidence that Mina was right and she was wrong.

Nanako had been right to speak up, hadn’t she? Mina had been saying dangerous things. And even if she wasn’t serious, what if she had been? What if—Nanako couldn’t finish that thought. It was so horrible that it hurt. For Mina to punish her like this, for doing the right thing—didn’t that make her a bad friend? Not worth caring about, not worth missing?

It consumed her up to and including her next tutoring session with Ren. She was, once again, staring blankly at her notebook when Ren said, “So how was your talk with your big bro?”

Nanako lifted her head, met his gaze, and burst into tears. This time Ren was ready. He took an entire box of tissues out of his bag, ripped it open, and set it in front of her.

By the time she was done crying, her aching head felt like it was full of cotton. Rubbing her eyes, she mumbled, “Thanks. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ren said. “What happened?”

Explaining took a while, because Nanako had to keep stopping to cry some more. Eventually Ren reached back into his bag—which was apparently magically bigger on the inside—and took out a huge bottle of aspirin and a fresh, unopened bottled water. Nanako accepted them gratefully.

“I’m still so scared,” Nanako said finally, gulping a shuddering breath. “I was the only person she told, before. What if it gets worse and there’s nobody for her to talk to?”

“She’ll have other people to talk to,” Ren said. “Her parents will make sure of that.” Nanako made a face, and Ren added, “And if they don’t, your dad will. Right?”

Nanako sighed. “I guess. I just…I think I did the right thing, but…”

“You did,” said Ren, so firmly that she blinked at him, first surprised and then startled by the iron behind his expression. “You did the right thing, Nanako. She can’t see that now, but it’s true.”

In moments like this, he really, really reminded her of Yu, from the steady thrum of his voice to the certainty in his eyes. And, like with Yu, she felt some of the tension curled between her shoulders ebb.

“Thanks, Ren.” Nanako looked at her notebook, at the scribbles swimming on the page. “I...don’t think I want to do any history today.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Okay. Good.” Nanako shut the notebook, put it away. “I guess I’ll just go home.”

“All right. Feel better.”

She managed to smile, genuinely, and swung off the bench. “Thank you.”

***

She did and she didn’t.

Some days, Nanako didn’t think about Mina (much) at all. She still tensed whenever one of Mina’s former bullies got near her, and she still looked for Mina in the morning and at lunch. But apart from that, she boxed up her memories and her fear and put them away. Along with the hope that Mina would come back and apologize.

It helped that Mina seemed to be feeling better. She started hanging out with new people; she looked less tired. And Nanako never saw Sato or the others bothering her again. Nanako couldn’t know for sure that she was recovering, and she didn’t dare try to talk to her, but she could—

Hope. Impossible to ignore.

Most of the time, Mina shot out the door at the end of the day so fast that she and Nanako didn’t see each other on the way home. So Nanako was surprised, walking along the flood plain one cold day, to look up and see Mina’s back several paces ahead of her.

No one else was nearby. Nanako was trying to read and walk at the same time, so she’d fallen far behind the rest of the kids heading home; and the wind was so cold that the usual randos weren’t around. Mina, a fair distance ahead, was slowing down, apparently trying to untangle her earbuds. The only other people on the path were a group of students beyond Mina, so far off that they looked like multicolored blobs.

Nanako stared at Mina’s back.

If she hurried, maybe she could—

But Mina had stopped walking and lifted her head, and the group beyond her was coming into focus. Nanako felt a chill.

It was Sato and her friends. _Of course_ it was. And of course they were bearing down on Mina, who was shrinking into herself, buckling under the weight of what Nanako now saw were vicious, gleaming smiles.

Nanako was moving before she’d decided to do it, her fists clenched, marching forward as the five girls encircled Mina, as Oe shoved Mina’s shoulder—

“Leave her alone,” Nanako cried, shriller than normal but at least she’d said it, at least something had gotten through the stickiness filling her throat.

Everyone looked around, Mina wide-eyed, Sato blinking, the others various degrees of surprised.

Hikichi and Uekusa closed ranks, but Nanako barreled through them, pushing with her shoulder like Chie had always shown her. She couldn’t stand between Mina and everyone else, so she stood beside her instead, glaring at Sato.

“Get lost, Dojima,” said Oe, so close that Nanako’s arm prickled.

“No,” Nanako retorted. Her ears were ringing, her stomach churning, but she planted her feet. “Leave her _alone_.”

“What, are you friends again?” Gotoda sneered. “Since when?”

“This is stupid!” Nanako exploded, stomping her foot. “You’ve been mean to her all year for _no reason_! It’s small and ugly and nasty—”

“Nanako,” Mina said, soft.

“Small and ugly and nasty,” said Hikichi, behind Nanako. Nanako’s hair stood on end. “That sounds like—”

Mina whipped around.

“Shut _up_ ,” she snarled. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

“Nanako,” Sato said, tilting her head, widening her eyes. “Oh my god. Do you _like_ her?”

Nanako was so surprised that the clouds swirling in her mind briefly cleared. “What?”

“Ooo-ooh,” Oe and Uekusa sneered. Hikichi laughed. Gotoda wrinkled her nose.

“ _Gross_ ,” Gotoda said. “Like, _ew_ , Nanako, you can do better than that!”

“What are you—” Nanako shook herself. “Even if I did, that’s got nothing to do with—”

“So you do?” Sato said, stepping forward. “You do like her?”

Mina was pressed right up against Nanako now. The other girls had tightened the ring without Nanako noticing, forcing them together.

“You’re still being stupid,” Nanako said, but her voice shook. Her vision had narrowed to Sato’s face, ringed by shadow. “What’s the point of—”

“I guess it runs in the family,” Hikichi said. The others laughed.

It took a second for the penny to drop, the neuron to fire. When it did, bile scalded Nanako’s mouth. Later, she would wonder why her response had been nausea, and not rage. She’d wonder what it said about her that she’d shrunk into herself, cringing against Mina, rather than stepped forward and—and—

“ _What_ _are you doing_?” snarled a deep, masculine voice.

It was like the cap popping off a bottle. The girls sprang apart. Nanako and Mina staggered, Mina dropping to her knees and Nanako gulping down the sour lump in her throat. Then she turned around.

Ren was standing there. At first, Nanako didn’t recognize him. His spine was straight, his feet braced, shoulders square and fists clenched, looming twice as tall and three times as broad. He practically _glowed_ , radiating a rage like ghostly flames. And his face—Nanako’s stomach clenched—was stark and sharp and hard, his eyes dark and fierce as banked coals, burning even Nanako as they roved from girl to girl.

Nanako had never seen him like this before.

She had never been _afraid of him_ before.

“Seriously,” said another masculine voice. Nanako looked at the boy standing next to Ren, hands on hips, frowning. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing,” said Uekusa, too quick.

Ren’s eyes flashed; his jaw tightened.

“Nothing,” said the other boy, flat. Like Ren, he was wearing the Yasogami High uniform, albeit much more neatly. He would have been shorter than Ren even on a normal day, but now he barely reached Ren’s shoulder. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

Behind Nanako, Gotoda was whispering to Sato: “ _That guy—the one who—isn’t it_?”

“We were just talking,” Oe said.

The boy glanced at Nanako. “Nanako, ‘zat true?”

Nanako blinked, and all at once she knew him. His hair was darker, shorter, his glasses tortoiseshell and horn-rimmed instead of black and square; but his eyes were the same, his face the same, if longer and thinner than the last time she’d seen him. 

“Shu-kun,” she said, and rallied. “No. It isn’t.”

Shu Nakajima squinted at the others. “I didn’t think so.”

Mina was still kneeling, clutching her bag to her stomach. Nanako thought about hugging her, but she didn’t know if Mina would want her to. She didn’t know what she’d do if Mina pushed her away.

“We just,” Sato began, but Ren overrode her.

“Get lost,” he snarled, so ferociously that Nanako’s feet twitched, trying to obey. “If I see you anywhere near them again, you’ll regret it.”

All five of the others blanched. Gotoda hissed something at Sato that sounded like “ _see_?”

“Y-you can’t threaten us,” Sato managed, cheeks going splotchily red.

“It’s not a threat,” Ren said.

 _It’s a promise_ , he didn’t say.

He didn’t have to. Uekusa and Oe broke first, spinning on their heels. Next was Gotoda, eyeing Ren over her shoulder, and then Hikichi, scrambling backward the first few feet like she was afraid to break his gaze.

Sato stood there for a second, glaring. Then she _tsk_ ed, muttered, “Stupid,” and followed her friends.

Ren instantly deflated: lowered his chin, rounded his shoulders, stuck his hands in his pockets. Shu grinned at him.

“Still amazing,” Shu said.

Ren cut him a glance, a wry smile; and then turned to Nanako, mild-mannered as ever. “Are you guys okay?”

Nanako opened her mouth to answer, and realized that Mina was crying.

“Oh,” Nanako said, dropping down beside her. “Mina. Mina, are you okay?”

Mina’s hair hid her face, but her shoulders shook and her breath came in wheezing gasps. After a second they resolved into hiccups, and then into words:

“I’m sorry,” she was whimpering. “I’m sorry.”

“What—”

“Nanako,” Mina wept, finally lifting her head. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I said you weren’t my friend. I miss you. I was just—I was—”

Nanako threw her arms around her and held on tight.

***

Several things changed after that.

Nanako and Mina didn’t go back to being friends the way they had. For one thing, Nanako wasn’t Mina’s only friend anymore: Mina introduced her to Aoi and Yuto, and before long all four of them were hanging out. Nanako also informed her own friends that they could either welcome Mina with open arms, or they could say goodbye to Nanako. They chose the former, and all was well.

At school, Sato and her cronies gave Mina a wide berth. Outside of school, they only ever saw each other on the flood plain. Mornings were pretty safe; even Sato didn’t dare go after Mina with other people around. The path was much less busy in the afternoons, though, and neither Nanako nor Mina wanted to risk another encounter like the first one. But they hadn't known how to avoid it.

Luckily, Shu and Ren volunteered to help.

(For a while, Nanako had worried that Ren might get in trouble for telling Sato off. So when Ryotaro said, casually, “I heard you ran into Mina’s bullies the other day,” her heart flew into her throat.

But he listened gravely to her story, nodded, and turned back to his paper.

“Sounds like you met some good people,” he said.)

Every day, Ren and Shu showed up after the final bell. Usually, they walked Nanako and Mina only to the end of the path, but if Sato or her friends were around, they’d take them all the way home. Mina and Nanako lived in the same neighborhood, and Nanako close to the bus stop in the Shopping District, so they weren’t putting Shu out. Ren, though, lived clear across town. All of Nanako’s attempts to point this out went nowhere.

“You’re not gonna convince him to stop,” Shu said at last, and that settled that.

This also meant Ren didn’t have to tutor Nanako anymore, because Shu was a history buff too, and they all rapidly converted Mina, and then they spent most of their afternoons arguing about people who’d been dead for centuries. It was great.

***

The biggest, and best, change came at the beginning of February.

For months, Nanako had had two dates on her calendar: February 2, the day Yu’s finals ended; and February 3, the day he came home for good. He and Yosuke had rented an apartment in Okina City, and they were going to drive down and move in on the third. Everybody was going to be there to help, even Rise, who was finally coming back to Inaba after a long tour.

Nanako absolutely, positively could not wait.

She was already vibrating with excitement by February 2. After school, she could barely keep still, hopping from foot to foot while she waited for Mina to change her shoes.

“What’s _with_ you?” Mina asked, laughing.

“My big bro’s coming home tomorrow,” Nanako replied. Saying it out loud made it _real_ , and it rooted in her chest and bloomed. “And he’s gonna _stay_ , this time! He and his partner got a place in Okina—”

As soon as Mina finished lacing her boots, Nanako was off, half-skipping across the entryway to throw the door open. She bounded down the steps, looked around for Ren and Shu—

She saw Yosuke first. He stood near the curb, arms crossed, red and yellow puffer jacket open as always to the cold air. His hair, chin-length and mahogany brown, was lightly dusted with frost, like he’d been pushed out of the house right after a shower.

In the split second it took to register all of this, Nanako saw a black-mittened hand reach over to brush away some of the ice, and followed it along a stormy gray sleeve to a broad shoulder to a black plaid scarf to—

“ _Yu_!” Nanako cried, and he looked around and smiled.

“Nanako,” he said, like he hadn’t just parachuted back into her life without any warning, and caught her when she threw her arms around his waist.

“You’re here,” Nanako said, burrowing into his coat. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

Yu laughed. Nanako’s throat constricted.

“We came down early,” Yosuke said. Nanako turned her head to look at him, blurred by a wall of tears. “Got all moved in this morning.”

“I was,” Nanako said, voice catching. “I was supposed to—I was—”

“Nanako,” Yu said, soft, and she buried her face back in his coat. It smelled different. _He_ smelled different, after living away for so long.

“I’m not sad,” she croaked. “I’m happy.”

Yu gently untangled her arms, knelt, and hugged her properly. Suddenly Nanako was wailing, clinging to his neck to stay upright. She was making a scene. People would be staring, whispering. Mina was probably confused and worried. But Nanako’s big bro was holding her, keeping her safe, and that was all that mattered.

Yosuke cleared his throat. When Yu and Nanako drew apart, he was holding out a rumpled tissue that had probably been in his pocket for years, and rubbing his nose on his sleeve.

“You, too?” Yu said.

“Shut up,” Yosuke croaked, pushing the heel of his hand into his eye.

Yu accepted Yosuke’s tissue, but handed Nanako a travel packet from his own pocket instead. She blew her nose, dried her face, tried to breathe through the dull pounding in her head.

“Um,” said Mina, behind her.

“Oh!” Nanako gasped, whirling around. “Mina!” She grabbed her hand, twined their fingers together. “This is my big bro, Yu, and his partner, Yosuke.” Mina’s expression cleared. “Guys, this is my friend Mina.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Yu said, getting to his feet.

“Hey,” Yosuke added.

“Hi,” Mina said, letting Nanako draw her forward. “Um, it’s nice to meet you too.”

“We always walk home together,” Nanako said, and brightened. “With—”

“Yu!”

Everyone turned. Shu ran up to them, beaming.

“What’s up, man?” he said, going in for a fistbump that Yu returned readily. “It’s been a while!”

“It has. How’s school treating you?” Yu tucked his hand into his pocket and rocked his hips to one side. “I bet you’re top of the class. Headed for the best college in Japan.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Shu said. “No. Actually, I’m going to community college for a couple years. Just to figure out what I want to do.”

Yu smiled. “That seems smart.”

“I thought so.”

Then Shu and Nanako looked around as the same thought occurred to them: where was Ren?

If Ren was surprised to see all of them turning toward him, he didn’t show it. He stood a couple of paces behind Shu, hands in his pockets, chin down, watching everyone through his fringe.

Ever since the encounter with Sato and her friends, Nanako had been noticing new things about the way Ren acted. If he tucked in his elbows and lowered his chin, he looked smaller. If he tilted his head at the right angle, his hair fell into his face, hiding his eyes. And if he lowered his voice, he sounded meek and shy. Taken together, Ren could seem…soft. Gentle. Insignificant.

But it was all an act, one that had worked on Nanako for months. It didn’t anymore. Now that she’d seen the truth once, she could always see it: the fire behind his gaze, the steel in his spine, the outline of his clenched knuckles in his pockets. So even though he was apparently calm, Nanako was pretty sure he was nervous. Maybe even scared. He kept glancing at Yu, braced like a dog expecting to be kicked.

“Yu,” said Shu.

“This is,” said Nanako.

“Ren Amamiya,” Yu said, “right?”

Ren blinked. For half a second, his armor cracked. For half a second, he looked like Yu had whenever the doorbell rang after Nanako got home from the hospital; how Yu still looked whenever her dad mentioned Adachi. Definitely nervous. Definitely scared. But ready to fight.

Then his face was blank again, his body relaxed. “How’d you know?”

“You’re a popular guy,” Yu replied.

Ren tilted his head slightly to one side.

“Well,” Yu said, touching Nanako’s back, “Nanako’s mentioned you, and so has Shu. Kanji and Naoto too.” Ren stood up straight. “I figured it was only a matter of time.”

“Yeah, you’ve got quite a following,” Yosuke said, propping his elbow on Yu’s shoulder. “Almost as much as this guy. I’m Yosuke Hanamura, by the way.”

“And I’m Yu,” Yu said. “Yu Narukami.”

He held out his hand.

Ren looked at it, blinked a few more times. His shoulders were slack, his arms loose at his sides. Nanako had never seen him so surprised before.

He reached out and grasped Yu’s hand.

There was—something like a static shock, like a spark jumping between their palms. Nanako flinched; Yosuke jolted; Ren snatched his hand back, eyes flaring wide. Yu stood there, open-mouthed, staring at him.

Then, all at once, like the sun coming out, Yu smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as ren-centric as the others, but a necessary bridge to what comes next


	4. thistle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **cw:** blood, gore

A year ago, if you’d asked Goro Akechi how he felt about staring down the barrel of his own death, he would have said, “Fine.”

He would have been lying, of course. Dying had never factored into any of his plans. He was too fast, too clever, too strong to be killed by a Shadow, the Phantom Thieves, or the plodding idiot that was his father. At worst, he might have served a paltry amount of time behind bars once he exposed Shido’s real-world crimes. But dying inches from the finish line? Leaving his revenge to someone else? Not a chance.

Trust the universe to prove him wrong on that front.

Not only once, but twice. First in the engine room, granted only a moment to register his absolute terror before the Shadows fired. And now again, some two months later, riding along in a ridiculous feline helicopter while Maruki’s Palace collapsed in on itself like a bad souffle.

“There he is!” Ann cried, and everyone, Goro included, went to look.

Below them, on a precariously swaying walkway, Joker— _Ren—_ lay flat on his stomach, hand wrapped tight around the dangling Maruki’s wrist. As the searchlight flooded over him, Ren turned his head, and Goro would have sworn—to no one, because there was no one left to care, because even now his body felt thin and insubstantial—that their eyes met. That Ren’s widened.

And then—

Goro was floating in a grey void, so weightless that his clothes—khakis, diamond-patterned sweater vest, white dress shirt—billowed around him. He blinked, registered a damp chill clinging to his skin, started to look around—

A small, cold hand grasped his own, and Jose’s voice said, “Hey! Good job.”

All at once Goro was standing on solid, transparent ground, his body apparently consenting to obey the law of gravity once more. Beside him, round face upturned, was Jose, clutching a star-shaped balloon that shone like a lantern.

“Jose?” Goro said.

Jose beamed. “You were pretty hard to find! But I’ve got you now.”

“Got—”

“So! Where do you wanna go?”

Goro’s jaw dropped. “I— _go_?”

“Mmhm! I can take you anywhere. Do you wanna stay in Japan? You don’t have to. I hear Amsterdam is nice—”

“ _Jose_ ,” Goro said, so sharply that Jose flinched. “What am I doing here?”

“Umm.” Jose looked at the fog surrounding them. “Talking to me?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“I’m dead,” Goro said. Jose winced. “I know I am. I felt myself die.” He could remember now that Maruki wasn’t clouding his mind: the rip and tear of bullets, the split-second sensation of drowning, the fear, the fear, the fear. “So why am I standing here with you?”

Jose hesitated. Then, reluctantly, like he was breaking a rule, he reached into his pocket and took something out.

It was...a stone shaped like a star, dark and leaden against Jose’s white fingers. The sight of it prickled Goro’s scalp, made his hair stand on end, but it took him a moment to understand why.

“Ren did this,” he breathed.

Jose nodded. “It was his wish.” All of the air left Goro’s lungs, the blood his limbs, leaving him cold and weak. “It used up the rest of the star’s power. Bringing somebody back from the dead is hard. But it worked. You’re alive.”

“He saved me,” Goro said. His tongue felt thick, heavy. “After everything, he still—why would he—”

Eyebrows furrowing, Jose tilted his head. “Because he loves you,” he said. “Duh.”

Pain, real pain, like an echo of the bullet that had finally finished him off, lanced through Goro’s heart. He gaped at Jose, unable to speak.

“There’s still a lot I don’t understand about humans,” said Jose, “but I understand love. Ren loves you. And when humans love each other, they want to see each other. You can’t see someone who’s dead.”

Suddenly, stupidly, Goro wanted to cry. He turned his face away, pressed his sleeve to his eyes.

“All right,” he said at last, breath hitching. “Take me to him, then. So I can show him it worked.”

Jose said nothing. Goro frowned at him, and frowned deeper when he saw that Jose was avoiding his gaze.

“Jose?”

“You can’t see him right now.” Jose shifted his weight, fidgeted with his balloon. “He’s, um...not available.”

“Not available? What do you—” Ice rooted in Goro’s chest. “He’s not—he didn’t—”

“He’s not dead,” Jose said quickly. “It wasn’t a trade, or anything. But he’s, um—in jail.”

For a moment, Goro was pretty sure he’d died again. His lungs stalled, his heart stopped, every nerve in his body went numb. He could see Jose, but only through a white haze.

His lips moved, his throat worked, of their own accord: “He’s _where_?”

“Without you to stop her,” Jose said, “Sae convinced him to testify against Shido. He’ll be in prison for the next couple of weeks while everything gets worked out.”

Hot, familiar outrage flooded Goro’s veins.

“Then I’ll go to Tokyo,” he said, jerking his hand from Jose’s grasp, straightening his cuffs. “To the police, or to Sae. My testimony is more valuable than his. I’ll go and—”

But Jose was shaking his head. Goro gritted his teeth. “What is it now?”

“I’m really, really sorry,” Jose said. His eyes swam with tears. “But you can’t help him.”

“Nonsense. I can—”

“You _can’t_. You’re not allowed.” Goro bristled, and Jose added, “There are rules. Constants and variables. Some things, humans can change, especially if they have hope.” He indicated the dead star. “But some things are fixed. They always happen, everywhere. In every timeline, Ren goes to prison. In every timeline, his friends get him out. In every timeline, he doesn’t see you again.”

Goro’s mouth went dry.

“I can send you anywhere else,” Jose said, pleading. “Just not Tokyo.”

Not Tokyo.

God. What had Goro expected? Of course he couldn’t go to Tokyo. Of course he couldn’t help the one person who had consistently helped him. Helping people had never been in his cards or, hah, his stars.

Neither had freedom. Only the illusion of it.

Where did he want to go?

Where was he _supposed_ to go?

If he couldn’t go back to Tokyo, then he couldn’t go back to his apartment. Couldn’t retrieve his clothing, his computer, his—he checked his pocket: yes: at least he had his phone, much good might it do him. But apart from that and the clothes on his back, he had nothing.

Was anywhere in the world safe for him at this moment? Forget about Shido’s goons, forget about the powerful forces that no doubt wanted him dead; what about food and shelter? He still had his bank card, but it was in Shido’s name, filled with Shido’s money. No doubt the account would be frozen. No doubt they’d be tracing the card, waiting for Goro to make a move.

Where could he go, like this, in early February, without freezing or starving to death?

Goro tightened his grip on his phone.

“Send me to Okina City,” he said. “To the shelter.”

Jose smiled, and snapped his fingers.

***

It wasn’t the same.

It seemed smaller, for one. The Center for Hope and Healing, as it was officially called, occupied an old shrine that hadn’t been used for religious purposes in decades. Goro remembered it as a complex of towering structures, all scarlet walls and spiky roofs and an old bell blackened with age, surrounded by trees so gnarled that they obscured the busy road just beyond the crumbling fence. In reality, it was only two structures: a low-slung, rust-colored shrine with a moldering triangular roof; and a newer, marginally nicer beige building. The former housed (or had housed) the dining hall, playroom, and common area; the latter contained bedrooms and bathrooms for the residents. A stone path ran between them, flanked on either side by dormant shrubs.

Goro stood on the path connecting the sacred gate to the main hall. Overhead, thin sunlight filtered through pale clouds and heavy snow that collected rapidly in Goro’s hair. At least an inch of it creaked beneath his feet and coated the steps leading into the shrine proper.

An icy wind scythed through him, rattling his bones.

He should go inside. He should introduce himself, explain the situation, explain his request. But now, standing here, remembering how he and his mother had stood here over and over and over, how they’d come and gone until they couldn’t anymore, he wished he hadn’t come. This wasn’t a place for him now, and not simply because he was a man and the residents weren’t. Goro wasn’t the same person he’d been before. If they knew the things he’d done, there was no way they’d—

The door ahead of him slid open with a startling _clack_. A young woman in a pink puffer coat and wool hat stepped out, lugging a shovel. Beneath her hat, wavy golden hair fanned over her shoulders; her matching golden eyes squinted against the snowflakes. As Goro watched, she set the shovel down to pull on a pair of thick gloves.

Now or never.

“Excuse me,” he said, stepping forward.

The woman’s head snapped up.

“Yes?” she said, visibly bristling.

Goro couldn’t blame her. He was a strange man in a place intended to protect women from the same. He fully intended to ask for directions to the nearest men’s shelter, or at least the nearest place that could help him find somewhere to stay.

But what came out of his mouth was, “My name is Goro Akechi. My mother and I used to stay here. I wonder if we could make a deal.”

***

The woman’s name was Ebihara. Eyeing him with all the suspicion of a feral cat, she hammered him with questions. He used to stay here? Really? How long ago? How old was he now? Boys weren’t allowed at the shelter past age 11. What _deal_?

Again, Goro couldn’t blame her for it, but the snow in his hair had melted and frozen again by the time she finished interrogating him. He suspected she only relented because his teeth were chattering too much to speak.

“Come on, then,” she sighed, all but rolling her eyes, and flounced inside.

Goro followed. It was dim and warm in the entryway. With a pang, he recognized the dark wood walls, the angular light fixtures, the paper doors straight ahead and the long hallway to his right.

With a stronger pang, he recognized the low, battered metal desk crowded into the small space. Another woman sat behind it, typing furiously on a computer that was ten years old if it was a day. The keys were very loud in the hush.

She looked familiar. Goro frowned at her, trying to remember. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was tied back in a ponytail; she was thin and sinewy, clearly older but very fit; her eyes were brown and angular and fierce, even while directed at the monitor.

They remained fierce when they flicked to Ebihara.

“Ai?” she said, and looked at Goro, and froze.

Ebihara motioned at him. “This guy says—”

“ _Goro_?” the woman gasped.

Six different neurons fired at once, thrilling recognition through him like lightning.

“Saiga-san,” Goro said, slumping. Suddenly he was exhausted, his spine bowing under what felt like two tons of ice. “Hello.”

***

The rest went off without a hitch.

Saiga-san—or Yuuko, as she insisted he call her—had worked at the shelter for years. She’d been there for all three of Goro’s visits with his mother, Harue, and had been unfailingly supportive. She’d tolerated Goro’s ridiculousness (“you were so sweet, with your little toy gun,” she said now) and Shido’s threats (“I was horrified when that man won the election, but no one wanted to listen to me”) in order to give Harue a soft place to land.

“But you never came back,” Yuuko said, glancing at him. “I hoped she’d gotten you out. But...”

“No,” Goro said. It was all he could say.

Goro needed two things: something to do, and somewhere to stay. He’d taken so much from so many people, Yuuko included. He wanted to pay it back now. So: could he work here? And if they couldn’t pay him, could he volunteer?

Yuuko agreed. She couldn’t pay him very much—she was the only full-time employee to begin with—but she could offer room and board, so long as no one else needed said room. And if it came to that, he could stay with her.

(Goro hoped his blush wasn’t as dark as it felt.)

Goro was allowed to pick from the stash of donated clothes. It took some doing; the sizing and fit were different from what he was used to. Eventually he settled on a grey cotton t-shirt, a black sweater peppered with tiny holes, and two pairs of faded jeans, one with a stiff zipper. He also chose an oversized, greasy brown work coat, thick and ugly and better suited to him than the Burberry had been.

Yuuko gave him a welcome kit that hurt his heart in its familiarity: a bundle of pale blue tissue paper containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, menstrual pads (“those won’t be much help to you, I realize”), and a few pairs each of underwear and socks. Then she walked him, his dress shoes slipping in the wet snow, to the residence hall, where she ushered him into a small tatami-matted room. A futon was rolled up in one corner; a wobbly wooden desk, chipped and scarred, stood opposite. Dog-eared, ragged romance paperbacks lined the top of a plyboard dresser beneath a narrow window.

“Take the day to get settled in,” Yuuko said. “Then we can—”

“No,” Goro said, somehow managing to sound like he _wasn’t_ filled with dread by the thought of being left alone. “That’s quite all right. I’ll change my clothes and meet you back at the front desk.” At her frown, he added, “I would truly like something productive to do.”

After a second, Yuuko nodded. “Okay. But take your time. I’ll see about finding you some boots in the meantime.”

***

Apart from Yuuko and Ebihara (“She’s here part-time; she’s studying to be a social worker,” Yuuko explained, while Ebihara scowled at Goro), there were five volunteers on the shelter’s staff, including an older gentleman who did repairs. Everyone was friendly, but Goro avoided engaging where he could, and didn’t even try to remember their names.

That went double for the residents, women at various stages of what Goro considered _giving up_. He’d seen them all in his mother: the quiet, frightened ones who couldn’t believe they were here; the ones lit from within by an unsustainable determination, bright as a dying star; the grey and listless ghosts that drifted from room to room, already gone or getting there. Goro was grateful to this place for giving him somewhere to live, but he’d seen the outcome for Harue and knew it for these women too. If their husbands didn’t kill them, they’d kill themselves, one way or another.

Their children were harder to avoid. There were several of them, more than Goro could ever remember from his own visits. Then again, he’d always stuck close to Harue, afraid that she’d forget him or leave him behind on purpose if he let her out of his sight. (Now, he knew she would never have done that; she’d been anxious about losing track of him, too.) Ebihara often roped them into helping her and Goro clean, but Goro did his best to ignore them otherwise.

Goro always had something to do. Shoveling the walk, salting the pavement, clearing snow from the roof, laying mousetraps, clearing mousetraps, killing bugs, setting tables, microwaving meals, distributing food, washing dishes, doing laundry, replacing bulbs, writing this or that work order, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. He toppled into bed at the end of every day, slept the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted, and rose before sunrise to shower with rough, sticky soap and start over again.

The first chance he got, he bought a new phone. There was nothing important on the old one, and the longer he had it, the more he worried it might be bugged or tagged. He also got a new number and a pay-as-you-go plan.

Then he stowed it in his dresser. He had no one to call.

Even though he had Ren’s number memorized.

***

He was surprised when his nightmares resumed.

It had been a while. Nightmares hadn’t factored into Maruki’s reality, and Goro had been so tired the first few weeks at the Center that his brain hadn’t had time to dream. But, as with so much else, that didn’t mean he was safe.

They started with old classics. Wakaba Isshiki bearing down on him, golden-eyed and felid, her leonine lips drawn back over fanged teeth. The sandy ground and brick walls crumbling away to binary code and reforming as spikes, as grinding gears, as firing lasers. It was always just this side of real, too uncanny to match his memories, and it always ended—mercifully—before the finale, with her Shadow slumped over Loki’s sword in her gut.

Goro walking down a never-ending hallway, his palm slick on his briefcase, his back trying to crawl around to his front. Eyes on him, watching from every angle, scouring his flesh. His father’s shadow falling across him, growing larger, its thundering footsteps echoing louder between Goro’s ears. A huge hand closing around the back of his neck, squeezing hard; and Shido’s voice: “Well done, son.”

An enormous, towering door, many stories tall and leagues wide, with no hinge and no doorknob. Goro paralyzed before it, breath stale and limbs shaking. And beyond it, the rhythmic _thump, thump, thump_ of his mother’s head being bashed into the wall.

—Ren—

—sneering at Goro as he pushed the bulkhead button, sealing Goro in with the Shadows—

—crawling across the counter at Leblanc, eyes huge and consuming, breath gusting over Goro’s lips—

—plunging his dagger between Goro’s ribs, grinding his heel into Goro’s sternum to crush his bleeding lungs—

—ducking beneath the table at Jazz Jin, spreading his palms flat on Goro’s thighs—

—clawing at Shido’s fists locked around his throat, his perfect mouth opening on a death rattle—

—slumped over a metal table, his jaw dropping to emit a long black centipede that slithered through the blood pooled beneath his skull.

That last one wasn’t even fair, Goro reflected, mopping up his own vomit at 3AM. There had been many others like it: Ren’s face a wash of scarlet, his eyes wide and staring, his fine fingers going limp on the tabletop. A sour smell in Goro’s nose, clinging to the roof of his mouth, mingling with the burn of gunpowder and the tang of bile.

They masqueraded as memories, but they weren’t. Pressing his gun into Ren’s forehead, staring him down, pulling the trigger—none of that had been real. Goro knew it.

In fact, he’d known it all along.

Goro had been surprised by the sheer number of officers outside Sae’s Palace. He’d told the detective in charge that Joker was unpredictable, even dangerous, but he didn’t think that warranted this response. Still, it had the desired effect. Goro watched, hungrily, eagerly, while Joker darted to the right, swung himself onto a fire escape, climbed upward toward a cluster of men waiting for him. Flinched when one of them struck Joker in the face with the butt of his gun. Whooshed out a breath like the wind had been knocked from his lungs when Joker sprawled on the pavement below.

Goro and the remaining Phantom Thieves were standing on the casino’s roof. Yusuke and Makoto were restraining Ryuji, who kept trying to leap over the edge. Ann leaned over the wall as far as she could, her leather gloves groaning against the concrete. Haru, beside her, clutched her arm; and Futaba slumped down, putting her head in her hands.

Morgana alone seemed unmoved, blue eyes slitted, tail flicking as he took in the scene below.

Then the cat turned, and caught Goro’s gaze with an edge so sharp that Goro startled.

Did he know? Had Ren told him? _What_ had Ren told him?

After a moment, Morgana looked away again.

None of them saw Goro slip off. Presumably, very soon, none of them would care.

Goro couldn’t go to the station immediately, so he ducked into an alleyway, crouched down with his arms wrapped around his knees. He was trembling so hard that his brain seemed in danger of phasing through his skull, which was itself filled with a white, hissing static. His tongue was too big for his mouth, thick with a slime that stuck in his throat whenever he swallowed.

Joker had a plan.

Ren had a plan, _right_?

For weeks, Goro had been waiting for Ren to spring the trap that would save them both. He’d done everything he could to warn Ren, short of telling him outright what his father had commanded him to do. He’d let Futaba put that ridiculous bug on his phone. He’d staged the conversation with Shido, laying out the plot stark and clear. He’d dropped hints, smiled too big, flashed his true colors whenever he got the chance. He’d even made that cryptic speech over billiards, alluded to collateral damage and not being in control and—

Goro had assumed Ren would figure it out. He’d assumed Ren would _stop him_. Tonight, he’d held his breath, waiting, waiting. Perhaps now, before they entered the Metaverse. Now, before they fought Sae. Now, with Sae broken and panting. Now, with the police bearing down on them. Now. Now. Now. But Ren had barely glanced at him. Had never spoken. The acid had roiled fiercer and fiercer in Goro’s stomach, and now it surged into his throat, springing tears to his eyes.

Maybe Ren truly was that foolish.

Maybe Goro hadn’t gotten through to him.

But what else could he have done? He _couldn’t_ have told Ren what Shido wanted. Shido regularly used people’s phones to spy on them; he could have been listening to Goro’s conversations, looking for reasons to wipe him off the board. He could have had Goro’s clothes, his apartment, his entire life bugged.

Goro had to couch everything in lies and obfuscations, or Shido would kill him.

Goro’s breath hitched. He twisted his fingers into his hair, swallowing hard against the tightness in his chest, the burning behind his eyelids.

Ren was the only true ally he had. The only person who tolerated his stupid prattle, who came when he called, who didn’t laugh at Goro’s idiotic jokes but smiled when Goro let something genuine slip. Goro didn’t want to hurt him. He didn’t want to kill him.

But he would. If it was a choice between Ren and himself, he would.

Gulping, Goro straightened up on quaking knees. Smoothed his blazer. Opened his compact. His eyes were perhaps slightly puffy, but not enough to arouse suspicion.

Goro piloted easily through the lobby, past the guards blocking the elevator, down, down, down into the interrogation area. The nausea wrenching his gut morphed into the kind of giddiness he’d felt the first time he downed a Shadow. The kind he’d felt when Wakaba Isshiki had stepped in front of a car.

When the elevator doors opened, Goro’s vision narrowed to a single point: the officer guarding Ren’s room. His leaden feet carried him forward—

—into Sae Niijima, and a bland, pointless conversation that he breezed through without registering. Until she held out a phone. Until the familiar prickle of the Metaverse washed over him.

Ren, he thought, relaxing for the first time in months. Ren, you reckless fool.

Still, Goro went through the motions: murdered the cognitive cop, made a sneering speech about how clever he was, shot Ren’s cognition in the head (at an angle that would have been impossible for a suicide, but who cared? It wasn’t real). He had no way of knowing, after all, if Shido was somehow watching. He had to put on a good show.

And then he retreated to the elevator, called Shido, and gave Futaba Sakura his name.

Only once he got home that night did he allow himself to collapse, hands numb, mouth dry. Only then did he drag himself to the toilet and heave and heave and heave until his stomach ached, until his throat was raw.

It was over. Ren was alive. The Thieves thought Goro was a traitor, but he didn’t care, so long as Ren knew better. He hoped Ren knew better. He hoped Ren understood.

After Goro took care of Shido, he’d find Ren and make sure.

Of course it hadn’t happened like that. Of course Goro had discovered the Thieves rifling around in Shido’s cognition. Of course he’d lost his temper, attacked them in the engine room, met the end that had been hurtling toward him all along, if only he’d been smart enough to see it. Of course...

“Hey,” said Ebihara, jolting Goro back to the present.

They were standing in the kitchen, elbow-deep in dirty dishes, Goro washing while Ebihara rinsed and dried. Ebihara was squinting at him, arms crossed, foot tapping.

Goro frowned. “What is it?”

“You’ve been washing the same dish for like, ever,” she snapped, foot tapping faster. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” Goro retorted, shoving a plate into her hands. “Here.”

“You’ve been like this for weeks, you know,” Ebihara said. “Staring off into space all the time. Not like I care, or anything, but it’s slowing everything down.”

“Your concern is touching,” he sneered. “I’m fine.”

“I literally just said I don’t care.” There was a clatter as she dropped the plate into the drying rack. “But you’re wasting my time.”

Goro grabbed another plate and raked his sponge across it. “Is that how you intend to speak to your clients?”

“You’re not a client. And if you were, I’d tell you the same thing.”

“That I’m slowing you down?”

“That we’re partnered with a clinic,” Ebihara spat, “and you should go.”

Goro stopped, stared at her. “What?”

Ebihara propped her hand on her hip. “We work,” she repeated, patronizingly slow, “with a clinic. And—”

“I _heard_ you. I don’t understand you.”

“It’s nightmares or something. Right?” Goro flushed; Ebihara nodded. “Thought so. You go, you talk to somebody, it helps, you stop having nightmares. And then I can stop standing here while you—”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone,” Goro said. “I’m fine.”

Ebihara rolled her eyes so hard they almost fell out of her head. “Yeah, whatever. Look, it’s free, and Yuuko won’t mind. What’ve you got to lose?”

What indeed. There were only two possible outcomes to seeing a shrink. In the best case, Goro would actually like them, and they’d coax his crimes out of him, and then he’d be arrested. He couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t do what he needed to do, couldn’t _atone_ , from behind bars.

Worst case, Goro would open himself up, peel his skin and prick his veins for a steady bleed, and they would lay him flat. _What’s so bad about that_? they’d say, or, _It sounds like you were overreacting_ , or, _You know, plenty of people had it worse, and didn’t do the things you did._ As if he needed someone to tell him that. As if he didn’t already know.

No. Better to avoid the whole enterprise. The nightmares would pass, or Goro would adjust, or—

“Goro,” Yuuko said quietly a few days later. “Ai talked to you about the clinic, right? I really think you should go.”

It was not a request.

The clinic was five minutes away, on the bottom floor of a crumbling office building. The air was cold, numbing Goro’s ears and forcing his hands into his pockets; but the spring sun was bright and close, melting the snow all around him into grey puddles that crusted his work boots with salt. He walked as quickly as he could without slipping on the occasional ice slick, his mind whirring.

All he had to do was try. Schedule an appointment, talk for an hour, declare the entire endeavor pointless, and then Yuuko and Ebihara would be satisfied. Right? Or, if push came to shove, lie. Say he was going, but use the time to sit somewhere and relax.

What business was it of theirs, anyway? His work was getting done. Who cared if his hands shook or his shoulders sagged or his brain went to mush? Who cared if he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in—hah. When had he ever had a full night’s sleep?

Through foggy glass doors, into a grungy, nondescript lobby, all brown carpet and salmon walls. Directly ahead of him was a pair of elevators, alongside a doorway to a concrete stairwell. To his left was a directory, black with white plastic letters.

It read, HIIRAGI COUNSELING – GROUND FLOOR – 101A.

Goro found the door for 101A: painted black, peeling at the edges, with a cloudy window set into its center. Beneath the window was a silver plaque: HIIRAGI COUNSELING: PART OF THE HIIRAGI COUNSELING GROUP.

(Hiiragi Counseling _Group_? Therapeutic clinics came in chains, now? Goro wasn’t sure he liked that.)

He hovered, uncertain. Should he knock? Was the door unlocked? Surely they didn’t let just anyone wander in; surely there was some protocol to be observed? Goro didn’t see a bell or buzzer. Was their security truly so lax that—

The doorknob turned. Goro sprang backward just as the door slid open.

The woman standing there was several inches shorter than Goro, with a beauty mark near her mouth and straight brown hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her olive green coat flared wide at the waist, spilling over orange tights and brown boots. Over one shoulder was a white leather bag, scuffed and worn but clearly expensive.

“—be back in a minute,” the woman was saying over her shoulder. Then she turned toward Goro, and stopped. “Oh!”

“I’m so sorry,” Goro said, instantly summoning the Detective Prince. “Pardon me.”

Her hazel eyes were bright with alarming recognition. Did she recognize him? He hadn’t encountered any fans during his rare forays outside the shelter, but—

“Might I squeeze by?” Goro asked, cocking his head. “I’m actually headed inside.”

She blinked, opened her mouth; and then shook herself.

“Of course!” she said, but didn’t move. “Um, are you here for an appointment?”

Goro forced a smile. “I’m here to schedule an appointment, yes.”

The woman brightened. “Wonderful! Come in, come in!”

She ushered Goro into a dingy waiting room, so small that Goro nearly knocked over a battered magazine rack. Straight ahead was a desk surrounded by a plastic partition, with a woman behind it, reading a book.

She glanced up, dull gaze flicking from Goro to the brown-haired woman. “Thought you were going to lunch,” she said.

“I was! I will. My name’s Maki Sonomura, by the way,” Sonomura told Goro. “I’m a therapist here. I’m headed to lunch now, but Megumi will see about getting you scheduled. Right, Megumi?”

The other woman, Megumi, heaved a sigh. “Yeah.”

“Great.” Sonomura’s smile widened into a beam. “Good luck! I hope we can work together!”

And she fluttered out, leaving Goro windswept and baffled.

“Okay,” Megumi drawled, clattering at her keyboard. “You want to make an appointment?”

“Er,” Goro said. “Yes.”

“Right. Fine. Hm. Looks like Maki’s the only one with openings.” Megumi cracked a wad of gum; Goro twitched. “She can see you Tuesdays at 10.”

Goro deflated, and then remembered that he didn’t want to do this anyway, and reinflated. “Oh, I see. How unfortunate. I’m afraid that time won’t do. No one else is available? On weekends, perhaps?”

“We’re not open weekends. It’s 10:00 on Tuesday or nothing.”

Goro clucked his tongue. “That simply won’t work with my schedule. Too bad. Thank you anyway.”

Megumi eyed him. “You wanna put your name down anyway, just in case? There’s no cancellation fee or anything.”

“Ah, well—why not?” Goro chirped.

He tripped back to the shelter feeling lighter than he had in days. But when he told Yuuko the news, hoping he sounded as glum as she probably expected him to be, she frowned.

“Why won’t that time work?” she asked.

Goro paused. “Well—well, we’re usually clearing away breakfast by then, and that’s—”

“Right, but Akemi’s always here on Tuesday mornings. She and I can handle the dishes. And it’s only for an hour. Did you make the appointment anyway?”

“Yes,” Goro said, a little desperately, “but—”

“Good,” Yuuko said firmly. “You should go. We’ll be fine until you get back.”

***

So he went.

Today, Sonomura was wearing a black dress with white stripes, or perhaps a white dress with black stripes; black tights; and white high-heeled boots. She was waiting for Goro in the lobby.

“Akechi-san!” she said, gripping his hand with knuckle-grinding strength. “I’m glad to see you. This way.”

Down a cramped hallway that smelled like burnt coffee, into a little office with a shabby desk and a teal couch. Compared to the rest of the furniture, the couch was in decent shape; Goro actually relaxed into it, clasping his hands on his knees. Sonomura drew her chair out from behind the desk and sat in it.

“So,” she said. “Welcome.”

“Hello,” he replied.

“You can call me Maki or Sonomura-san,” Sonomura said. “I don’t mind either way. Would you prefer that I call you Akechi-san?”

“Just Akechi is fine.”

“All right.” Sonomura crossed her ankles. “What would you like to work on?”

Nothing, Goro thought, but said, almost despite himself, “I’ve been having nightmares.”

Sonomura raised her eyebrows.

“Every night,” he added, cursing his traitorous tongue. “For...a very long time. But especially the past few months. It’s beginning to affect my work.”

“Where do you work?”

“At the Center for Hope and Healing. I’ve been living there, as well.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I...”

Thus it went. Goro talked until he was hoarse, and Sonomura listened, expression warm and thoughtful, questions equally so. The next week, Goro went back. And the week after that. And the week after that. Before he knew it, he was calling her Maki, and she was calling him Goro. He told her about his mother, his father, the hate and frustration, Ren. She reminded him of Ren, a little; she was more expressive, more outgoing, but they both made Goro want to void all the poison inside his gut. To tell them the truth.

The nightmares came less often.

Goro found himself looking around the shelter with new eyes. He started talking to the residents, offering genuine good mornings and good nights. He learned their names. Mai, Haruka, Kumiko, and Keiko, among others; their children, Sakura, Nanami, Daiki, Shoto, Mizuki. In his spare moments, he asked Haruka what she was reading; let Mai tell him about her husband, who she loved despite his hatefulness; puzzled over crossword puzzles with Kumiko. He moderated the kids’ games, breaking up fights and playing referee during soccer matches along the halls and in the playroom.

One day, Goro asked Ebihara, “Why do you want to be a social worker?” and she looked at him like he’d grown an extra head.

“I want to help people,” she said. Apparently she’d come from privilege, but felt like no one saw her. She’d struggled to feel worthy of love and affection. Watching a friend of hers change the world for the better had inspired her to try to do the same. She knew she could be kind of a bitch, but she really believed she could make a difference. By the way, Goro could call her Ai.

The next time the repairman came through, Goro paused to watch him rattle around underneath the kitchen sink.

“What are you doing?” Goro asked.

The man, Shigeru, was only too happy to explain. From him, Goro learned how to fix leaky faucets, clogged pipes, and running toilets; how to rewire a light switch; how to repair a microwave and replace a faulty starter in a furnace. And Shigeru had a million stories to tell about growing up, getting married, and raising children in Inaba, a nearby town. Had Goro ever been? Beautiful place. Not at all far from here; maybe fifteen minutes by car. Goro should visit someday. Walk the river. Stop at Aiya, tell them Shigeru had sent him. He’d get a discount.

Mai took her son, Daiki, back to her husband, and returned to the shelter two months later. Haruka, Sakura, and Nanami moved into a flat that Yuuko had helped them find, with a job Ai had helped Haruka get. Kumiko left, and they never saw her again. Keiko returned to her husband, and later Goro heard that she was in the hospital with two fractured ribs and a broken arm: she’d been thrown down the stairs. But she didn’t show up at the shelter. Goro worried about her, and about her children. He wasn’t used to worrying about people. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

New residents filtered in and out. Goro learned and remembered their names. All of them.

***

All in all, Goro thought he was doing pretty well. And then November 20 arrived, and the bad came roaring back.

That day, everyone, even Ai, asked him repeatedly if he was all right. He managed to wave them off, despite the bile burning in his throat. Despite the phantom vision of Ren’s cognition, _not Ren, never Ren_ , staring at him first tense, then confused, then horrified. Despite the blood coursing down Ren’s pale skin.

The next day, Maki said, “You don’t look well,” but Goro changed the subject. It was only because of the date, he told himself. This was a temporary setback. He could power through.

But he didn’t. The nightmares resumed. He barely slept. He couldn’t eat. He fumbled dishes, half-collapsed while raking leaves, dropped a full bucket of mop water and actually started to cry.

Christmas Day, Yuuko all but forbade him from working.

“Rest,” she ordered. “Are you going to see Maki tomorrow?”

He nodded, swallowing sandpaper.

“Good. Please, _please_ tell her about whatever’s bothering you. I’m worried.”

The next morning, Goro folded himself onto the couch in Maki’s office and considered her through bleary eyes.

She’d never stopped wearing dresses, but now that the nights were longer and the days colder, she’d circled back around to tights and boots. She’d cut her hair over the summer, short so that it just brushed the tips of her ears. Her bangs draped across one eye as she tilted her head.

“I need to ask you something,” Goro said.

“What is it?”

Goro drew a long, deep breath.

“What are the rules,” he said, “regarding criminal disclosure?”

Maki went still.

“What do you mean?”

“If I committed a crime,” Goro said, holding her gaze, watching her eyes widen, “and I tell you about it here, are you required to report me? To have me arrested?”

Maki unclasped her hands, uncrossed her legs. Leaned back in her chair.

“Depending on the crime, yes,” she said. Goro nodded. “For example, if you are or have been a danger to yourself or others. Abuse. Murder.”

“I see.”

“Can I assume that you...have committed crimes like that?”

Goro didn’t answer.

“Right,” Maki murmured. “Would you like to talk about how you feel about them?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Yes.”

Goro shrugged one shoulder, looked down and away.

“Hypothetically,” he said at last, tongue and teeth moving through molasses, “I did terrible things on my father’s orders.”

Maki stiffened.

“Hypothetically, he was a major politician in this country. He’s now behind bars. Convicted for fraud, conspiracy, intent to commit murder. _Hypothetically_ , I became his weapon in order to get close to him. To bring him down from the inside.”

“Conspiracy,” Maki said. “ _The_ Conspiracy? Masayoshi Shido’s conspiracy?”

Goro raised his eyebrows at her. “Perhaps.”

“You became his weapon,” Maki said. Her fingers twitched, like she was sifting through her thoughts. “His _weapon_. You were the Black Mask?”

An icicle plunged straight through Goro’s body, pinning him in place.

“Which would mean you can use a Persona,” Maki added, beginning to smile. “I knew it.”

“What are,” Goro breathed, “you talking about.”

“I sensed it the first day you came,” Maki said, leaning forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. She was alight, glowing with triumph or excitement or both. “But I didn’t know if you’d already awakened or just had the potential, and I didn’t want to spook you, so—”

“I don’t—how do you—”

“In Ren Amamiya’s testimony,” Maki said, lodging another spear in Goro’s heart, “he mentioned Shido’s hitman in the Metaverse. The Black Mask. But he said he’d died. Are you him? Am I right?” Fire flared behind her eyes. “If you were in Tokyo, then—do you know what happened last winter?”

A hard right turn; Goro struggled to keep up. “What?”

“I had a client who was traveling back and forth between here and Tokyo,” Maki said. “His girlfriend lived there, but his family was here. All he could talk about was how painful it was, being torn between them and her. But after the New Year, he called me and said he’d made up his mind to stay in Tokyo. Boom. Just like that. I knew something was wrong. He didn’t sound like himself at all. It was like he’d been lobotomized. Some friends of mine said similar things were happening to other people in the city. It seemed like there was a Persona at the heart of it. But—”

“There was,” Goro managed. The room was spinning. “We stopped it.”

“ _We_?” Maki said, eagerly. “You and the Phantom Thieves?”

Goro goggled at her.

“Oh goodness,” Maki said, touching her mouth. “I’m so sorry. This is too much too soon, isn’t it?”

“How do you _know_ ,” Goro croaked.

“I’m a Persona user, too.”

What. _What_. Goro shut his eyes. He was floating away, untethered from gravity.

“I’ve been able to summon a Persona since I was seventeen,” Maki said. “In fact, I’ll show you. Verdandi.”

A ripple, like a stone dropping into a lake. Goro opened his eyes.

Floating behind Maki, towering from ceiling to floor, was a slim, skeletal woman with grayish-blue skin. She was shrouded in a billowing, tattered green robe, and in her right hand she clutched a huge black orb that seemed to swallow all the light in the room.

Goro was on his feet before he realized what he was doing, reaching for Hereward—

—but Hereward didn’t come, because _they weren’t in the Metaverse_.

“How are you doing that?” he demanded, backing away until his calves hit the couch. “How are you—”

Maki flicked her hand, and Verdandi vanished.

“I’m sorry,” Maki said, smiling sheepishly. “I spooked you. Please sit down. I think it’s time we compared notes.”

Maki told Goro more than he told her. Namely: there were _dozens_ of Persona users, all with similar origin stories and similar paths through life. They’d each faced down eldritch horrors, powerful gods, apocalyptic crises. They’d prevailed. And eventually, they’d joined forces.

“Nowadays, there are two teams,” Maki said. “The Nanjo Group is the diplomatic arm. Kei and his people have connected with Persona users in other countries—” _Other countries_!—“so that if something happens in Japan, the world stands a chance of surviving it, and vice versa. Then there’s the Kirijo Group, led by Mitsuru Kirijo. They fight Shadows directly. Both groups work with the government at times, but they’re mostly independent.”

Goro had probably met some of them, he thought dimly. The team that had arrested Ren had probably included some of Kirijo’s operatives. The _Shadow Operatives_.

“Goro,” Maki said, sitting forward. “You’ve been working at the shelter all year, trying to atone. What comes next?”

Goro blinked.

“I keep going, I suppose,” he said. “Keep serving people until it all...evens out.”

“But how will you know when that happens?” Maki insisted. “How long do you have to work at the shelter before your debts are paid? How long do you have to work anywhere?”

Goro didn’t know.

“You used your Persona to do terrible things.” Maki’s gaze was fierce, intense; Goro couldn’t look away. “ _Truly_ terrible. And now you want to make up for it. I think that’s good. I think it’s brave. And I think I know how you can.”

Goro caught his breath. “How?”

“Mitsuru and Kei are always looking for recruits,” Maki said. Goro sat up straight. “You could—”

—use his Persona to help people. To _save_ people.

Repay his debts.

Goro relaxed, little by little, tension dissipating like so much steam.

“Where do I sign?” he asked.

Maki beamed.

***

Of course it wasn’t that easy. Mitsuru and Kei—or, more likely, one of their associates—would want to interview Goro first, make sure he was a good fit. Maki promised to contact them. 

In the meantime, Goro went back to work. The next time he saw Maki, they talked about what he’d done in the Metaverse, and what he’d almost had to do to Ren. The nightmares continued apace, but they stung less now that someone else knew the truth of what Goro was. What he’d been. Increasingly, he was able to wake up, roll over, and go back to sleep without issue.

The failing afternoon sunlight lanced golden through the windows while Goro scoured the kitchen sink. Technically, he didn’t have to do this, but he had finished his other tasks and he didn’t want to sit around until dinnertime. He didn’t want to risk his thoughts turning to Ren, as they had more and more as the calendar rolled closer to February 2.

“Hey, Goro?” Yuuko said, behind him.

Goro stopped, blew his bangs out of his eyes. “Yes?”

“Someone’s here to see you.”

Goro’s heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be anyone good. Maki would have called first, and no one else knew that he was here. Could it be Shido’s goons? Had they found him, after all this time? Trust them to show up now, when he’d started to think he was safe—

“It’s a detective. Naoto Shirogane?”

The ground spun out from under Goro’s feet.

 _Naoto Shirogane_.

The Detective Prince. The _real_ one.

Goro had never wanted to be a detective. One of Shido’s cronies had suggested it as an excuse to get Goro on the police’s payroll. Which was ridiculous, because Shido already had the police bought and paid for; but Shido ordered Goro to play along. At first Goro had thought Shido was trying to humiliate him. But then Shido introduced Goro to a talent agent, and everything became clear.

Goro was to become the Second Detective Prince, and use his celebrity status to draw attention to the shutdowns and psychotic breaks suddenly plaguing society. Then he’d use his cunning and quick wit to solve those cases, one by one, and help Shido destroy his enemies without dirtying his hands.

It was surprisingly clever. A closed loop. Goro triggered the incidents, cried foul on national television, and then uncovered the answers the public craved. Why had that train conductor lost control? Overwork at the hands of the transport minister. Why had that man crashed that car? He’d been drunk, and all of his colleagues could attest to his alcoholism.

Goro had loved being recognized, lauded, admired, even for lies. But he’d hated the title _Detective Prince_ , because he knew he was an insult to the original.

Naoto Shirogane was, to put it mildly, a genius. His most high-profile case was a serial murder that had stumped the Yasoinaba Police Department for months. The rest of his resume was equally impressive, ranging from art burglaries to smuggling rings to drug traffickers. He’d collared a hundred suspects and put a dozen grizzled detectives to shame. And he’d _really_ done it, unlike Goro. No one had manufactured his success.

More interesting still, Shirogane had absolutely no social skills. There were hundreds of clips of him on Yudeo: sniping at reporters, icing adoring fans, even calling out Yasoinaba’s investigators. Yet people were fascinated by him. His fandom was intense, flooding social media with speculation about his whereabouts, praise for his accomplishments, and even—Goro had wrinkled his nose— _fan fiction_ about his supposed escapades.

He was everything Goro wanted to be.

And now he was here. Asking for Goro.

Why? For help on a case? Goro’s heart leapt, and then sank. No. Shirogane had been in the field for almost a decade now, and came from a long line of detectives besides. Who was Goro, by comparison? A scruffy (he glanced down at his ragged jeans and tattered sweater; ran a hand through his stiff, frizzy hair) nobody hiding from his father’s allies in a women’s shelter. Cowering with his tail between his legs.

“I can tell him to go away,” said Yuuko, searching Goro’s expression.

“No,” he blurted, and rallied. He peeled off his dish gloves, folded them, set them on the counter. “No, I’ll speak with him. He’s out front?”

“Yes.”

It was dim as ever in the entryway, but Shirogane seemed to glow. For a moment, Goro was disoriented. Shirogane was shorter than he’d always imagined, but somehow sturdier, more imposing. His hair was shoulder-length and slightly wavy; he wore a long coat, checkered with sky and royal blue squares and fastened with brass buttons. A pair of fluffy earmuffs hung around his neck.

Goro had only a moment to catch his breath before Shirogane fixed him with those piercing blue eyes.

“Hello,” Shirogane said, extending a gray-gloved hand. “Goro Akechi?”

“Yes,” Goro said, tipping instinctively into the higher register. He grasped Shirogane’s hand: warm, and strong. “It’s very nice to meet you, Shirogane-san.”

“Mm,” Shirogane said, drawing back, tucking the hand Goro had shaken into his pocket. “And you, as well,” he added, almost an afterthought.

Goro smiled. “How can I help?”

Shirogane studied Goro briefly, his head tipped to one side.

“I’ve been sent to find you,” he said. Ice flooded down the back of Goro’s neck. “By someone who claims to be your friend.”

“Is that so?” Goro managed, scraping like a rusted hinge.

Shirogane nodded. “Hiding in a place like this, however, suggests to me that you do not want to be found. Is that correct?”

The Prince façade slipped entirely from Goro’s grasp. He drew himself up, set his jaw.

“Yes,” Goro said. “It is.”

“Very well,” Shirogane said. “I won’t tell them where you are. I apologize for disturbing you. Have a good day.”

Goro stared. Shirogane pivoted on his heel, headed for the door—

“Wait,” Goro said, lurching forward.

Shirogane paused, looked back.

Goro opened his mouth, worked his dry throat. Said, “Who was it? That asked you.”

Shirogane tilted his head again. “Ren Amamiya.”

The earth spun once more from beneath Goro’s feet, this time leaving him fully weightless.

 _Ren_.

Ren was looking for him.

Vaguely, through the fog filling his brain, Goro saw Shirogane’s eyebrows rise.

“So you know him?” Shirogane said.

“How do _you_ know him?” Goro snapped, harsher than he’d intended, but he wasn’t in control of himself anymore. He was bobbing gently against the ceiling, looking down on his own rigid frame and clenched fists.

Shirogane fiddled with his gloves: the first sign of discomfort he’d shown that afternoon.

“He works with a,” Shirogane began, and hesitated, and went slightly pink. “Friend. Of mine. He did us a favor recently—” Of course he had, _of course he had_ —“and in return, he asked me to look for you. To see if you were alive.”

Ren. Ren, Ren, Ren, Ren, Ren. Ren was out of prison. Ren was free, and safe. Ren was thinking about Goro, looking for Goro, hoping—apparently believing he was dead, but hoping—

“Tell him,” Goro said. Suddenly he was back in his body, more stable and secure than he’d felt in years. His mind was a clear, sunlit field. “Tell him I’m here. Please.”

Shirogane blinked, raised his eyebrows higher. Goro held his gaze, and his own breath.

“All right,” Shirogane said. “I will.”

Goro exhaled, long and low. “Thank you.”

Shirogane bowed his head. “It was nice to meet you, Akechi-san,” he said.

And he left.

The moment he was gone, Goro staggered. His heartbeat resounded against his sternum, pulsing through his limbs.

“Goro?” said Yuuko.

He looked round. She was standing behind the desk, watching him.

“Should I add this person to your list of acceptable visitors?” she asked, gently.

Goro’s throat constricted. He closed his eyes, inhaled carefully through his nose. Then, once he trusted himself to speak, he nodded.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

***

Goro spent the next two days on tenterhooks.

He tried to distract himself with work: chapping his fingers, grinding his joints to jelly, crawling into bed stinking of ammonia and detergent and grease. The problem was, the more he worked, the more he thought, and the more he therefore pinballed around his own skull.

Ren had been looking for him. Why? Jose had said Ren loved him, but that couldn’t have been true. Ren hadn’t known Goro. He’d known Akechi, the Detective Prince; the Black Mask; the boy who mocked him over billiards and told him embarrassing stories and (mortifyingly) threw gloves at him as per _the Western tradition_. Goro hadn’t known _himself_ a year ago. How could Ren claim to? How could Ren claim to care about him?

Certainly it was nigh impossible that Ren _still_ loved him. His schoolboy crush had surely dissipated by now. Surely, Ren didn’t still feel a rush of heat at the thought of seeing him. Surely, his palms didn’t slip on his broom when he remembered the rare times their fingers had touched. Surely, he didn’t hold close the sensation of being exposed, vulnerable, but entirely safe in the other’s presence.

Surely Goro didn’t, either.

Would Ren be glad to see him? Angry that Goro hadn’t reached out? Angry for other reasons, among them that Goro was a murderer who had hurt some of Ren’s closest friends? Would he be warm and understanding, or fierce and cold? Raw, or inscrutable?

If he’d picked up on Goro’s signals—if he’d correctly interpreted the aquarium invitations and the long nights at Jazz Jin and Goro’s willingness to drop everything to see him—

The day it happened, Goro was helping with lunch. The three youngest children at the shelter, Hina, Yuina, and Kenta, always needed to be convinced to eat. This morning, with their mothers looking utterly wretched, Goro took on the task. He was currently crouched beside their table, chattering about Buchimaru to distract them from their purported stomachaches. It had already worked on Kenta, who was piling rice into his mouth. Yuina was beginning to poke at her food. Hina, though, was a little too excited about the topic at hand, and had abandoned her chopsticks entirely. Goro racked his brain for a new tactic.

“Goro?” said Ai.

Goro looked up.

Ren was standing in the doorway.

He was...taller. (Damn him, how had he gotten taller? Was he _taller than Goro_ now?) His hair was dark and messy as ever, but perhaps slightly neater, cut so that it framed his face rather than obscured it. He wasn’t wearing his glasses (good; Goro had never liked them), and without them his eyes were plainly visible: black and hungry and searching, raking over Goro’s body as tangibly as claws.

Goro recognized all the same fine features he’d… _appreciated_ so much last year: high cheekbones, pointed chin, pink lips, the latter slightly parted. Slender neck sloping down to a black turtleneck under a familiar grey coat, stretched tight over broadened shoulders and fuller torso. Hands fisted at his sides. Feet braced. Trembling.

Trembling?

Goro rose, moving slowly, like Ren was a rabbit poised to flee. In some ways, he was. For all that Ren looked the same and different, self-assured and more adult, he _was_ trembling, and there was a bright gleam at the edge of his gaze that betrayed high emotion.

It wasn’t until Goro was on his feet that he realized what sort of picture he must make. His sweater was pilled and worn, the fraying cuffs of his jeans soaked from shoveling because he’d been too lazy to put on his boots that morning. The sneakers he’d chosen instead were originally white, but now stained gray by snowmelt. After nearly a year of bathing with bar soap and two-in-one shampoo, his skin was permanently dry, his hair oily at the roots and frizzy at the ends. Today, said hair was pulled into a ponytail because he hadn’t washed it, or himself, in three days. Deodorant was the only thing keeping the stink at bay.

None of that mattered to Yuuko, Ai, the volunteers, or the residents. But to Ren—

“Goro-kun?” said Hina, nervously.

Goro blinked, looked down, squeezed her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. “I know him.”

When he lifted his head again, Ren was staggering backward as if on the end of a broken tether. Before Goro could speak, Ren turned on his heel and strode out of sight.

Well, that was unexpected.

“Ren,” Goro said, hurrying after him. “Ren!”

He skidded into the hallway in time to see the hem of Ren’s coat disappearing through the front doors. Goro marched after him, resisting the urge to run. He wouldn’t chase him.

But Ren hadn’t gone far. Goro found him bent over the porch rail, vomiting into the snowy bushes.

Goro wavered, said, “Stay there,” and went back inside. He fetched a cup of water from the kitchen and his coat from the closet, cheeks burning under the force of a dozen gazes.

By the time Goro got back, Ren was upright, chest heaving. He turned as Goro approached, pale-faced and sweating, and his eyes widened like he’d forgotten Goro might be there.

“Here,” Goro said, offering the cup.

Ren accepted it carefully, so their hands didn’t brush.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice, even hoarse, sent a shiver skimming across Goro’s skin.

“You’re welcome,” Goro murmured.

Ren took a gulp, swished it around his mouth, spat over the rail. Then he tipped his head back to down the rest. Goro pulled on his coat and zipped it.

“Feeling better now?” Goro asked, taking the empty cup, setting it on the railing.

Ren was staring at him, prying him open with those gleaming eyes. He nodded.

Goro waited, but Ren simply kept staring, scanning Goro’s body as if to memorize (or re-memorize) every inch. The tension suspended between them pulled tighter and tighter, winding ropelike around Goro’s neck until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Well?” he snapped, without really meaning to. “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” said Ren softly.

Goro lifted his arms and let them drop. Irritation was better than uncertainty, so he shrouded himself in it, armor against Ren’s piercing scrutiny. “You found me. You cracked the case. Goro Akechi has been hiding at a women’s shelter. Happy now?”

Ren coughed and turned his face away, but not before Goro saw the flush flooding his cheeks and nose.

“Am I happy,” Ren said, and took a tremulous breath. “Huh.”

Ren _was_ taller than Goro. Not by much, but enough. It gave Goro a new angle on his face; made the sharpness of his jaw more pronounced, the shadow of his cheekbone deeper. Goro watched a muscle flex in it while he waited for Ren to find his voice.

At last: “I thought you were dead.”

“I suppose you did.”

Ren’s shoulders rose and fell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

At first, because Jose had told him not to. After that...

“I needed time,” Goro replied, with effort. Honesty came easier after so much practice with Maki, but he couldn’t help the jagged edge in his voice. “You couldn’t have given it to me.”

Ren bristled, whipped around. “That’s not fair. I would have—”

“You would have come bursting in here at the first opportunity,” Goro said, meeting him glare for glare. “Or you would have called me, or video chatted me, or texted me constantly.” Ren flinched. “You would have wanted to _spend time_ with me.”

“You don’t know that,” Ren muttered.

“I needed to be alone.”

“For how long?” Ren countered, stepping forward. Goro resisted the urge to step back. “How long were you going to let me believe you were gone?”

“You didn’t believe I was gone,” Goro said, letting his lip curl in an old, familiar sneer. “Not really, or you wouldn’t have sent Naoto Shirogane after me. Inspired, by the way. What was the favor?”

“That’s none of your business,” Ren said. His whole face was red now, right down to his throat. “I thought you were _dead_. I _hoped_ you weren’t, but I thought—this whole year, I thought—”

“This whole year, you’ve been pining for me? Crying yourself to sleep over me? That doesn’t sound like you, Joker.”

“I _missed_ you,” Ren spat. “I’m happy to see you, I’m glad you’re alive—why can’t you—”

His voice broke. He pressed his face into his sleeve.

Goro felt a pang, a percussive note that vibrated across his ribs. He was doing it again: hurting Ren, pushing him away, even though he didn’t want to. Even though he never had.

He could smell Ren from here. Light, and sweet. Something like citrus. Probably his shampoo, or his laundry detergent.

Goro looked up at the roof overhead. Uncrossed his arms. Breathed out the tension.

“Would you,” Goro said, “like a hug?”

Ren made a strangled sound. “What?”

Goro chanced a glance. Ren was gaping at him, so raw and vulnerable that Goro’s heart skipped a beat.

“I’ve learned a few things this year,” Goro said.

“Like how to hug?”

“Yes,” Goro replied, lifting his chin. “If you must know.”

Ren choked on a watery laugh. “Impressive.”

“Don’t act like you’re any better. I didn’t see you throwing your arms around your friends.”

Ren laughed again, softer. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

They stood there looking at each other. Finally Goro stepped forward.

It was awkward. Ren must have thought Goro was joking, because he stood stiff and still even as Goro’s arms closed around him, one around his shoulders and the other around his waist. They nearly banged noses because Ren hadn’t moved his head out of the way. But Goro held on regardless, resting his chin in the crook of Ren’s neck, fisting both hands in Ren’s coat.

He...hadn’t thought hugging Ren would feel like this. Goro had never actually hugged another man before, much less one like Ren, whose dusky scent and firm torso were stirring things in him that he’d generally preferred to ignore. He’d expected Ren to be lean and muscular, solid and sturdy; he hadn’t expected his flesh to be quite so yielding, his skin quite so soft. Certainly he hadn’t expected a violent shudder to race up Ren’s spine, echoing into Goro’s body; or for Ren to suddenly extract his arms from Goro’s grasp and twine them around his waist, fingers curling tight into his coat.

“Why here?” Ren mumbled. His voice resonated _through_ Goro, like a bow across a violin. “Why are you in Okina?”

Goro took a deep breath.

“We lived here,” he said. “My mother and I. She tried to leave my father three times. We always came to this shelter.”

Suddenly Ren was shaking again, and Goro thought he might have been crying; but then his choked hiccups resolved into laughter. Goro tensed.

“This is _funny_ to you?”

“No, no,” Ren wheezed, pulling Goro closer. “Not like that. I’m sorry. It’s just—I grew up in Inaba.”

It took a moment for Goro to understand.

“No, you didn’t,” he said.

“Yes I did.”

“No,” Goro insisted, his lungs constricting, compressing his throat. “No, you can’t—you can’t have been that _close_ —”

“I was.”

 _If only we’d met sooner_ , Goro had said, a lifetime ago.

They’d lived fifteen minutes apart for ten years. If they’d been even a little nearer—if they’d gone to the same school—

This train of thought derailed, though, because Ren’s breath had caught and his shoulders had stiffened, and now he exhaled on a ragged keen.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Ren croaked.

Goro leaned his head gently against Ren’s.

“I’m glad you found me,” Goro murmured.

And when Ren started to cry in earnest, Goro didn’t even mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I have to justify my characterization of goro here, but here goes. I've already written feral, sharp-edged akechi in my [other](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095923) [fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450721). for this I wanted to try a different angle. fundamentally I think goro has a strong sense of justice and a clear moral code. because shido was such a monster, he believed (or convinced himself) that the bad things he did while trying to get close to him were justified. he's the anti-hero. and this version of him comes out of it not angry, not ready to fight with the world, but tired, disillusioned, and focused on atoning for his crimes. 
> 
> basically, I wrote robbie daymond's akechi already. this time I wanted to try soichiro hoshi's. hopefully I struck the right balance between goro's defensive prickliness and his willingness, ultimately, to grow and change.


	5. marigold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[The morning light was blocked by dusty dirty blinds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jW7R5tqUn-0)  
>  And I could hear your vodka kisses shouting,  
> Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!_

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/28/XX, 10:01PM]

 **Ren** Okay.  
**Ren** Have you seen this one?

 _Ren sent a link_.

 **Akechi** I told you, I haven’t seen anything.  
**Akechi** Why is this little girl wandering into her father’s office?

_Ren is typing...._

**Akechi** Doesn’t he have a lock on his door?  
**Akechi** This happened on live television?  
**Akechi** My goodness. This is going on for far too long.  
**Akechi** Another child has appeared. Who was supposed to be watching them?  
**Akechi** Aha, here’s another parent, finally.  
**Akechi** This is ridiculous.

 **Ren** It’s funny.

 **Akechi** It’s mortifying. The poor man.

 **Ren** He’s fine. My favorite part is when the baby comes rolling in halfway through.  
**Ren** Just like, “what’s all this then?”

 **Akechi** Is that your attempt at a British accent?

 **Ren** You have no idea what I’m attempting.  
**Ren** You can’t hear my voice.

 **Akechi** Does this woman know that everyone can see her crawling around on the floor?

 **Ren** Obviously not.

 **Akechi** They could have gotten him fired.

 **Ren** Jesus, okay  
**Ren** We’re sticking to cat videos from now on

“Not videos of _me_ ,” Morgana said, at Ren’s elbow.

Ren switched his screen off. “Stop snooping.”

“I’m not snooping!” Morgana protested, while Ren turned back to his textbook. “You always let me read your texts!”

“I’ve given up trying to stop you. It’s still snooping.”

Morgana huffed. He was coiled around Ren’s notebook, his tail draped across the last empty space on the page. Ren nudged it aside, and Morgana extended one leg to cover the top of the page instead.

“If you’d get me a phone—”

“Then you still wouldn’t be able to see my messages, because I’m not adding you to all my chats.”

“Well, you should! I need to know what’s going on in your life!” The cat lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes. “Especially since you leave me all alone every day—”

“I can’t take you to Yasogami people would see,” Ren said in a single breath, instinctive after months of repetition. He idly spun his pen between his fingers. “People here notice things.”

“Hmph.”

A pause. Morgana extended his claws and prodded at the paper. Ren nudged him away again.

“It’s bedtime,” Morgana said.

“I need to finish this.”

Another pause. Ren frowned at his textbook, willing the jumble of numbers and symbols to arrange themselves into something coherent. Meanwhile the entire left half of his body tingled, waiting for Akechi’s reply.

“If you’d started it earlier,” Morgana began.

“It’ll be fine.”

“You’ve still got fifty problems left.”

“Once I figure the first few out, the rest’ll be easy.”

“You always say that.”

“I can’t focus when you’re talking.”

His phone pinged. Ren grabbed it.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/28/XX, 10:23PM]

 **Akechi** Apologies, I had to prepare for bed.  
**Akechi** Cat videos?

 **Ren** Please tell me you’ve seen a cat video, ever.

 **Akechi** Define “cat video.”

Grinning, Ren opened Yudeo. Morgana coughed.

“I’m happy Akechi’s alive too,” he said, “but— ”

“Morgana,” Ren murmured, scrolling down his homepage.

“—you can’t let him distract you too much—”

“He’s not distracting me.”

Morgana’s tail thumped against the desktop. “You’ve been texting him all weekend.”

“Of course I have.”

“Just because you think you failed your entrance exams—”

Ren stopped scrolling.

“—doesn’t mean you can stop working on—”

“I am working,” Ren said quietly, staring at the screen without seeing it. A hammer was starting to pound inside his head.

“Like you worked on your exams?” Morgana countered. “You didn’t study at all!”

Because he hadn’t wanted to take them.

Ren had thought his time in Tokyo had changed him. He’d gotten on the train convinced he was a better person, capable of carving his own path through the world, expectations be damned. In some ways, that was true. In others—or, at least, in one specific way—it wasn’t.

All his life, Ren’s parents had told him that if he worked hard in school, he could be and do whatever he wanted. Ren had believed that lie and toed that line right up until Shido crashed into his life and ripped the hook out through his stomach.

Everyone in Inaba turned on him instantly. Yasogami suspended him. His parents called in a series of favors and, still convinced that a good school was Ren’s ticket out of trouble, sent him to Shujin, where ninety-nine percent of the students and eighty percent of the teachers hated him. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he worked, their opinions never changed. And with a felony still on his record, no one’s opinion ever would.

Apart from a vague urge to help people, Ren had never known exactly what he wanted to do with his life. He’d considered journalism, politics, medicine, law. Until his conviction, he’d thought every avenue was open to him. Now he knew better. It was a point of pride to keep his grades up, to trounce the classmates that thought so little of him. But why bother going to college? Why grind himself to dust chasing a job that would never materialize? Maybe, _maybe_ he could get a two-year degree, but other than that, why bother?

Try telling that to his parents. They meant well, and they cared about him, but every time Ren tried to talk to them about school, they went selectively deaf. Every time he’d floated the idea of skipping the Center Test this year, they’d looked through him.

Joker would have confronted them. Joker would have made them understand. But _Ren_ put his head down, hunched his shoulders, and did as he was told. Mostly. He’d applied to the schools on their list—the University of Tokyo among them—but he hadn’t _tried_. He hadn’t gone to cram school. And he hadn’t studied.

After the test, he’d found the answer key online. He hadn’t done badly, but he hadn’t done well enough to get into the places his parents had chosen. The knowledge was a vicious twist in his gut, a knife’s blade of triumph. _Take that_.

Of course, that presented its own set of problems. Namely: what now? His parents would expect him to take a year off, throw himself into studying, and ace the next test. They’d say he’d been dealing with some residual trauma, and pat his shoulder, and be very understanding but very firm: you are doing what we want, come hell or high water.

Ren didn’t like it. But he didn’t particularly want to do anything else.

No, that wasn’t true.

He _wanted_ to go back to being Joker. He wanted to lead the Phantom Thieves into battle. Save Japan. Save the world. Especially, _especially_ now that he knew Akechi was alive. Ren wanted to fight alongside Akechi the way he had in Maruki’s Palace. All summer, facing off against Monarch after Monarch after Monarch, Ren had been very aware of the empty place at his right shoulder where Akechi should have been. (And, to a lesser extent, the emptiness at his left where Sumire should have been.) Now Akechi was back, and they could—

But they couldn’t. The Jails were gone. The Palaces were gone. The Metaverse was closed again. Ren had no idea when or if it would ever reopen. For that matter, he had no idea if Akechi was interested in going back. Probably not. Probably Akechi’s time in the Metaverse was one big misery, and he would think Ren was stupid for missing it. Certainly he would think Ren was stupid for throwing away his future in favor of a past he couldn’t have.

He’d been quiet for too long. Morgana squirmed.

“I’m sorry,” Morgana mewed. “I know this year’s been...a lot.”

“It’s not that,” Ren said. He gave the cat a brittle smile. “I’m not going to stop doing my homework. Just...can I have two days to get used to the fact that Akechi’s not dead?”

Morgana eyed him, bright with suspicion. Then he sighed.

“I guess,” he said, tucking his paws underneath his chest.

“Thank you.”

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/28/XX, 10:30PM]

 _Ren sent a link_.

 **Ren** Here’s one. You know English, right?  
**Ren** This guy is Japanese, but his wife is American, and they mostly speak English.

 **Akechi** What do you take me for?

 **Ren** Right, right, what was I thinking?  
**Ren** Anyway, there are subtitles if you need them.

 **Akechi** I know English, Ren.

Imagining Akechi saying his name out loud sent a giddy frisson through him, rising into his throat liked a trapped laugh.

No. No, no, no, no, no. Akechi had been back for less than two days. Ren couldn’t be acting like this _already_.

“When are you going to tell the others?” Morgana said.

Ren blinked at him. Morgana blinked back, half-lidded and serene, but the tip of his tail twitched against Ren’s notebook.

Ren took a deep breath, let it out, put down his phone.

“Soon,” he said, turning back to his work.

“Uh-huh. How soon?”

“Soon.”

“They’ll be glad he’s okay, you know.”

“I know.”

“So, what, you want to keep him to yourself?”

Ren’s hand curled into a fist.

“Futaba and Haru should definitely know,” Morgana said, low, careful. “I’m sure they’ll be fine, but they should have the chance to brace themselves before—”

“I don’t know if Akechi wants me to tell them,” Ren said. His handwriting looked like spiders on the page, black and bristling. “He didn’t even want me to know he was alive.”

“You could ask him.”

“Not yet.”

“I really think they’ll be happy.”

“Me too.”

Definitely. Almost completely.

“You shouldn’t lie to them about it.”

“I haven’t lied.”

Ren didn’t have to look to know that Morgana was making a face. “This morning Ryuji asked you what was new and you said ‘nothing.’”

The pounding was back, alternating between Ren’s temple and his forehead. “I’ll tell them. I promise.”

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/28/XX, 10:35PM]

 **Akechi** The black and white cat is the best of them.  
**Akechi** He seems very clever.

 **Ren** I should’ve guessed you’d like Poki.

***

Ren would have slept through his alarm the next morning if Morgana hadn’t swatted him awake. He rolled over and grabbed his phone.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/29/XX, 5:48AM]

 **Akechi** I nearly overslept this morning, I’ll have you know.  
**Akechi** It’s your fault for keeping me awake.

 **Ren** Awww, up late thinking about me? ;)

Ren was brushing his teeth when the reply arrived.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/29/XX, 7:04AM]

 **Akechi** Talking to you, more like.  
**Akechi** It would have been rude to stop answering.

 **Ren** That’s the benefit of texting. You can just stop.

 **Akechi** Not with you.

Ren’s heart leapt.

No, he reminded himself, shoving his toothbrush under the faucet. No, no, no. It isn’t like that. He isn’t like that. He’s in a better place and he’s willing to be friends, but that’s all. Don’t push it.

Still, every time Ren’s phone buzzed, he scrambled for it, beamed at the screen, typed a reply as fast as he could. Luckily he’d perfected the art of walking around with his eyes down, so he got to school fine.

Shu was stowing his shoes when Ren stepped into the entryway. The sight of him cinched tight in Ren’s chest, crushing his lungs.

“Hey, man,” Shu said, shooting a smile over his shoulder. “Listen, there’s a new issue of Okubo coming out today. Can we swing by the bookstore after—”

“Shu,” Ren said. It came out as a hiccup, barely audible over the chatter around them. Shu whipped around so fast he almost overbalanced and had to catch himself on one hand.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded, getting up. “What happened?”

“It’s,” Ren began, and his voice failed. He pressed his hands to his stinging eyes, swallowed against the fist clutching his throat. “It’s a good thing, it’s—”

“D’you need to sit down?” Shu gripped his elbow. “C’mon, we can—”

Ren shook his head, sucked in a breath. Forced himself to meet Shu’s gaze, stern and searching under furrowed brows.

“I found him,” Ren said, and once the words were out of his mouth the pressure unraveled, snapping like a kite through his limbs. Suddenly he was grinning, bigger than he could remember doing since the last time he’d fought in the Metaverse. “My friend, the one who was missing. I found him. He’s okay.”

Shu’s eyes widened. “ _What_? Wh—seriously?” he asked, stepping closer, grinning too when Ren nodded. “Holy shit. Holy shit, man! That’s _amazing_ , that’s—”

Laughter bubbled up out of Ren’s chest, light as champagne. “I saw him. I went and talked to him on Saturday. We’ve been texting ever since.”

For the first time ever, Ren saw his own joy at the fact of Akechi’s existence reflected on someone else’s face. Shu was briefly luminous, dazzling; and then he threw his arms around Ren in a hug that ground Ren’s ribs together. Ren hardly cared. He clung back, hiccupping into Shu’s shoulder, helplessly, utterly happy.

***

That afternoon, when Ren walked into Tatsumi Textiles, Naoto was there. They stood with both elbows propped on the counter, studying Kanji’s newest felting project. Both of them looked around at the chime of the bell over the door.

“Hey, Ren,” Kanji called.

“Hello,” Naoto said, more warily.

Ren stood frozen for a second. He’d thought about this moment on the way over. Thought about everything he wanted to say, the gratitude he wanted to express. Even now it sat like a bright, fresh orange behind his sternum, bursting at the seams with tingling sweetness.

But he’d never been very good at expressing himself out loud. So he put his arms to his sides and bowed, so low that his hips groaned in protest.

When he straightened up, Naoto was blushing.

“That wasn’t necessary,” they said, pushing a lock of hair behind their ear.

“What was that for?” Kanji asked, looking from Ren to Naoto and back. Then he brightened. “Oh! You went to see your friend, huh? How’s he doin’?”

“He’s great,” Ren said. His face hurt from smiling. “Really great.”

***

Ren couldn’t believe his luck.

Akechi answered every message Ren sent, even the stupid ones about memes. Sometimes he sent Ren messages too, out of the blue: _How was your lunch? How has your day been? I just wanted to share this morning’s accomplishment,_ followed by a picture of a faucet, scrubbed clean and shiny. They talked about nothing. They talked about everything. In the space of a week, Ren learned more about Akechi than he’d learned in an entire year.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/29/XX, 3:32PM]

 **Akechi** I’m just leaving therapy.

 **Ren** Therapy?

 **Akechi** Yes. My therapist's name is Sonomura. Since I work at the Center, I can visit her clinic for free.

 **Ren** That’s great. How long have you been going?

 **Akechi** Since March. It’s been surprisingly, well, therapeutic.  
**Akechi** I told her about you.

 **Ren** Really?

 **Akechi** Yes. About how infuriating you are.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/29/XX, 9:49PM]

 **Akechi** If I’d known you were so concerned, I would have reached out sooner.

 **Ren** No, it’s okay. I’m glad you took the time you needed.  
**Ren** I wish you could’ve trusted me to give you space, but I’m still glad.

***

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/30/XX, 10:17AM]

 **Akechi** Please explain to me why people on the internet behave in such appalling ways.

 **Ren** Oh, boy.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/30/XX, 2:53PM]

 **Ren** Have you thought about going to college?

 **Akechi** No. It sounds horrible.

 **Ren** You didn’t like school?

 **Akechi** I liked being admired for my intelligence. I wouldn’t want to fall back into those bad habits.

 **Ren** A little admiration isn’t a bad thing.

 **Akechi** It was for me.  
**Akechi** What about you? Where are you going?

 **Ren** Nowhere.  
**Ren** My parents wanted me to go somewhere prestigious. They made me submit all these applications.  
**Ren** I know what you’re going to say. “Made you? Since when can anyone make you do anything?” But they just steamroll all over everything. They don’t listen.

.  
.  
.  
.

 **Ren** Anyway, I put in the applications, but I’m pretty sure I won’t get in. I didn’t really do the work. And my exam scores won’t be high enough.  
**Ren** Which, good. I didn’t want to go anyway.

 **Akechi** What do you want to do, then?

 **Ren** I don’t know.

.  
.  
.

 **Akechi** That would frighten me. I would have to know. I’d need a plan.

 **Ren** What’s your plan, then?

 **Akechi** To do what I’ve been doing until I don’t need to anymore. After that, I’m not sure.

***

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 1/31/XX, 4:01PM]

 **Ren** So, listen, Morgana won’t leave me alone until I ask you. Can I tell the Thieves you’re alive?

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

 **Akechi** I should have guessed that Morgana would be reading over your shoulder. Hello, Morgana.

 **Ren** He isn’t always. I don’t let him.

 **Akechi** I would prefer you didn’t, for now.  
**Akechi** Tell them, that is.

 **Ren** Morgana wants me to say that they’ll be glad you’re okay. None of them hate you, if that’s what you’re worried about. They liked you too.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 **Ren** If this is too intense, we can drop it.

.  
.  
.

 **Akechi** I will think about it.

 **Ren** Okay.

 **Akechi** Actually, there is one person I would like to talk to. Are you still in contact with Yoshizawa-san?

 **Ren** Sumire, yeah, I am. Do you want to talk to her?

 **Akechi** Yes. Would you be so kind as to give her my number?

 **Ren** I can definitely do that.

***

[CHATLOG. Goro to Sumire Yoshizawa, 1/31/XX, 5:16PM]

 **Yoshizawa** Akechi-kun? Is this you??

 **Goro** Yoshizawa-san, hello. Yes, it’s me.  
**Goro** I apologize for not reaching out sooner.

 _Yoshizawa started a video call_.

***

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 2/1/XX, 12:00PM]

 **Ren** So how did your talk with Sumire go?

 **Akechi** It went well. She was surprisingly emotional.  
**Akechi** I hadn’t realized she cared so much about my well-being.

 **Ren** Everyone does. Even Haru and Futaba.  
**Ren** You know, Ryuji and Ann both texted me on June 10 to talk about you.

 **Akechi** June 10?

 **Ren** The day we met.

 **Akechi** That was June 9. June 10 was the day I formally introduced myself, but I first spoke to you on June 9.  
**Akechi** Do not mention pancakes.

 **Ren** You’re no fun.  
**Ren** Are you saying our anniversary is...6/9?

 **Akechi** I’m blocking your number.

***

[CHATLOG. Goro to Ann Takamaki, Futaba Sakura, Haru Okumura, and 5 others... 2/1/XX, 8:07PM]

 **Goro** Hello, everyone.  
**Goro** Ren thought it prudent to add me to the group. If any of you disagree, please feel free to remove me again.

 **Sakamoto** Naw, it’s cool.  
**Sakamoto** Hey, man! Welcome back.

 **Takamaki** We were really worried about you, you jerk!!! Don’t ever do that again!

 **Sakura** Congrats on the respawn! 🧟🧟🧟

 **Niijima** My sister says hello.

 **Kitagawa** I will admit to being very surprised that you survived. How did you manage it?

 **Okumura** It’s nice to hear from you again, Akechi-kun.

 **Sumire** Um, just to be completely honest, I’ve known for a couple of days already. Hi, Akechi!

 **Goro** Strictly speaking, I didn’t.  
**Goro** Survive, that is.  
**Goro** Jose brought me back.

 **Ren** Wait a minute. He did?

 **Goro** Yes.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 2/1/XX, 8:11PM]

 **Akechi** He said it was your wish.

***

Ren hadn’t pushed the point then. He’d let the Thieves pepper Akechi with questions and steered their private conversation into lighter territory. Memes. Cute videos. Complaints about Ren’s homework and Akechi’s aching back.

But those words, _He said it was your wish_ , kept popping into Ren’s head. When he brushed his teeth that night. When he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. When he rolled over the next morning and saw the date, 2/2, on his phone.

Ren had thought a lot about that date this year. Wondered, specifically, how he’d feel about it once it came. Would he have moved on from Akechi by then? Would his heart still hurt to think of him? If he felt nothing, what would that mean? That he’d never cared about Akechi at all? Or that he was stronger than he thought?

Now, miracle of miracles, most of those questions were moot. Akechi was alive. Jose had brought him back. _Ren_ had brought him back, by wishing for him. He remembered the exact moment he’d done it: lying in bed, his head pillowed on his arms, his stomach climbing up his throat as he remembered the bulkhead door crashing down. Remembered Akechi laughing at him in disbelief.

_Seriously, you really are..._

Ren hadn’t wanted to forget Akechi. He hadn’t wanted to lose him. So he’d wished.

Presumably the star, and Jose, operated differently from Maruki. Staying away for almost a year wouldn’t have been possible in Maruki’s twisted reality. Which meant Akechi was really, truly alive. Not shackled to Ren. Not shackled to anyone or anything, anymore.

Ren was happy for him. Happy, and scared.

Whenever Akechi decided to move on to bigger and better things, Ren wouldn’t be able to go with him. Ren could have been king of the universe and Akechi would still have left him in the dust. That was who Akechi was. It was what had drawn Ren to him in the first place: that propulsive energy, that sense of motion even in stillness.

Once, Ren had thought he could keep up. Now he knew better. One day, Akechi would let Ren fall away like scaffolding from a rising rocket, and Ren would be alone again.

Well—not alone. Not really. That wasn’t fair to the Thieves, or to the friends he’d made this year. But...fragmented. Everyone else only saw pieces of Ren: the faces he showed them, the masks he wore. All of those masks were part of him, like his Personas, and all of those friendships were genuine. It wasn’t lying.

It could be lonely, though. Isolating.

It wasn’t like that with Akechi. Akechi saw _all_ of Ren, all at once. When they were together, Ren felt real. Whole.

Ren didn’t know what he’d do without that.

***

These thoughts carried Ren through the school day to Shu running up to a tall young man with grey hair to Yu Narukami’s palm sparking against his own. To Narukami’s face breaking into a wide smile, his silvery eyes going the color of fresh-fallen snow.

“What was that?” Nanako gasped.

Ren stuffed his hand in his pocket. It was still tingling.

“We’d better get going,” said Narukami, holding Ren’s gaze. “The others are waiting.”

“The others?” Nanako said. “Everybody’s here?”

“Everybody’s here,” Narukami’s friend— _Yosuke_ —confirmed. “Even Rise. She got in last night.”

Nanako squealed. Ren finally couldn’t take it anymore, and looked away.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he told Nanako. “Your big bro will get you home safely.”

“Oh,” Nanako said, and, “Well,” Mina said, and Shu turned to Narukami, looking stricken. Narukami hummed.

“I think we can walk together a little ways, at least,” he said. Ren kept his eyes on Nanako, but he could feel Narukami’s gaze like summer sunlight, hot on his cheek. “Across the flood plain?”

“Yeah!” Nanako said, brightening. “Come with us!”

“You’ll like Yu,” Shu said. “You’re a lot alike, actually.”

More than they probably knew, if that jolt was any indication. Ren took a deep breath and forced his fingers to unclench.

“All right,” he said, folding into his usual slouch. “Lead the way.”

Nanako grabbed Mina’s hand and fell into step beside Yosuke. Yosuke Hanamura, he'd said, which rang a tinny bell: Hanamura was the manager at Junes. Ren had never met his son, but everyone in Inaba knew he had one. He’d been the town punching bag a few years ago. Ren had felt bad for him then, and felt even worse now that he knew what it was like.

At first, Shu, Ren, and Narukami walked behind the others, Shu grilling Narukami on every aspect of college life. Ren didn’t listen. He stared straight ahead, the whole side of his body prickling, risking glances whenever he could. Narukami was slightly taller than him, definitely broader, more solidly built. His silver hair was finer and straighter than Ren’s, but also cut so that it draped across his eyes. His expression was soft and open, friendly, and he walked with one hand in his pocket.

 _That_ rang a louder bell: Kanji walking Ren home at the end of November, looking like he needed to shit. Narukami had mentioned Kanji. He knew him. Had Kanji been trying to copy him?

Ren had always been able to see his teammates’ Personas. It had something to do with being their Leader; something to do with the Velvet Room. But he’d never been able to see anybody else’s before now. Eyeing Narukami through his lashes, he thought he glimpsed the palest of shadows layered overtop of him. _Multiple_ shadows.

A Wild Card, like Ren, with confidants to match.

“Oh, Yosuke would have to tell you about that,” Narukami said suddenly. “Yosuke?”

Yosuke turned and swept Shu into his conversation with Nanako and Mina, smooth as butter. _Magician_ , Ren thought, like a breath on the back of his neck.

“So,” Narukami said.

Ren straightened up. “So.”

“Futsunushi.”

Ren looked around sharply. Narukami was squinting at him, as if struggling to see.

“Maria,” Narukami added. “Vohu Manah. Metatron. Kohryu. Ongyo-Ki. Futsunushi _and_ Ongyo-Ki?”

“For Arms Master,” Ren said automatically. His fingers were numb. “In tight corners.”

“Ah,” Narukami said, nodding. “Sure. Magician, Faith, Councillor, Justice, Hierophant, Hermit. What are Faith and Councillor?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t have those.” Narukami lifted his hand, and with a flash a series of glittering blue cards were fanned between his fingers. “I do have Aeon, though. And Hunger. I guess Faith and Councillor are like them.”

“Hunger?”

Narukami smiled, a little sadly. “Another time.” He closed his fingers. The cards vanished. “You’re a Wild Card.”

Ren couldn’t speak.

“Like me,” Narukami said. “Like Aigis.”

“Who?”

“It’s a long, long, long, long, long story,” Narukami said. “Twenty years long. You want to hear it?”

It took the rest of the walk across the flood plain, through the Shopping District, to Shu’s bus stop and Mina’s house and, finally, to Nanako’s. From the street, Ren could hear half a dozen voices laughing and chattering beyond the walls. Beaming, Nanako raced up the steps. Yosuke paused on the porch to look back.

“You could come in,” Narukami said, rocking his hips to one side. “The others would like to meet you. And Kanji and Naoto’ll be there.”

“I have to go home,” Ren said. He could barely hear himself over his brain spinning in his skull. “My mother’s expecting me.”

“I’ll cut to the chase, then.”

Narukami took a business card out of his pocket and handed it over. It read, _The Kirijo-Nanjo Alliance: Hurtling Toward the Future_.

“Maya Amano and Mitsuru Kirijo are coming into town tomorrow. They’d like to offer you a job.” Ren’s heart skipped a beat. “You don’t have to take it; they won’t force you. You don’t even have to come. If you don’t want them to know you’re here, I won’t tell them.”

“Wait,” Ren croaked, shaking himself. “If they don’t know I’m here, then why—”

“Why are they coming?” Narukami supplied. “There’s someone else they’re trying to recruit. You’d both meet them together.”

Someone else—

Wait.

Wait _wait_ wait.

One name from the impossibly long list of Persona users was suddenly flashing neon in Ren’s head.

 _Maki Sonomura_.

“Goro Akechi?” Ren said.

Narukami cocked his head. “You know him?”

Ren couldn’t help it: he laughed, shrill even to his ears, and put his head in his hands.

Akechi hadn’t mentioned this. He hadn’t mentioned _anything_.

Ren didn’t know why he was surprised.

“Oh,” Narukami murmured. “You _really_ know him.”

Ren fisted his hands in his hair, tugged hard to give his eyes a plausible excuse to water, and straightened up.

“What time is this meeting?” he asked.

***

Stalking toward home, Ren pulled his phone from his pocket and toggled to Akechi’s newest message.

 _I’m glad your day went well_ , he’d written. _Do you have plans for this weekend_?

Ren glared at the screen, knuckles creaking.

 _Nope_ , he wanted to say. _Do you_?

_I do now. When were you going to tell me that you do too?_

_When were you going to tell me that you’re thinking about joining the Persona military?_

_Were you going to tell me at all? Or were you just going to disappear and leave me to figure it out on my own?_

_Is this how you think it’s going to be? You vanish and I chase you, over and over and over?_

_I can’t live like that. I can’t—_

Something hot and miserable was lodged in his throat.

This was _exactly_ what he’d been afraid of. Getting close to Akechi, starting to take him for granted, and then—

Ren stopped, closed his eyes, sighed.

Think. Be reasonable.

Akechi was his friend. _Only_ his friend. And Ren’s friends could do whatever they needed, go wherever they wanted. It wasn’t personal. They weren’t leaving _him_ , they were just…leaving.

It had to be like that with Akechi too.

Ren coughed a laugh, rubbed his face. God. He was being such a creep. Even if he and Akechi were dating—they weren’t, but _even if_ —Akechi still wouldn’t owe him an explanation. He wouldn’t have to tell Ren everything he was doing or thinking about doing.

Akechi had to do what was best for him. Ren’s feelings about it were his business.

So the lump in Ren’s throat dissolved, and the tension knotting his shoulders loosened, and Ren breathed out the frustration and the fear. Then he went back to the chat window.

[CHATLOG. Ren to Akechi, 2/2/XX, 3:44PM]

 **Ren** Actually, I do now. You remember I told you I was tutoring someone named Nanako? Her cousin came to pick her up from school today. His name is Yu Narukami. He’s a Persona user, and he figured out that I am too.

_Akechi is typing…_

**Ren** He told me about the Kirijo and Nanjo Groups and invited me to a meeting with them tomorrow. I guess I’ll see you there?

 **Akechi** Yes, you will. I wanted to meet these people myself before I told you about them. If it was some kind of trap, I didn’t want you to be involved.

 **Ren** You don’t have to explain yourself to me.

 **Akechi** Don’t I? You’re not upset that I kept it from you?

 **Ren** I don’t know.  
**Ren** I guess I was at first. It felt like you were hiding it. But you don’t owe me anything. I want you to be free to do what you want.  
**Ren** I don’t want you to disappear again, but if that’s what’s best for you, then you should.

 **Akechi** I have no plans to disappear.

 **Ren** Are you okay with me being there? I told Narukami I’d go, but I don’t have to.

 **Akechi** No, you should come. Strength in numbers, and all that.

 **Ren** Okay then. I’ll bring Morgana too.  
**Ren** How was your day?

***

The guys in suits were following him again.

Ren hadn’t seen them in a while. He’d thought maybe Kanji had scared them off back in November, but they must’ve been on vacation or something, because as he passed the gas station Morgana said quietly, “They’re back.”

Ren forced himself to stay light, languid. “How close are they?”

“Couple blocks away. They think they’re so sneaky.”

“They don’t know I have eyes in the back of my head.”

“Or your bag.”

“Think they’ll follow us onto the train?”

“Probably,” Morgana muttered, tail swishing. “I could try to—”

“Oh!” said Narukami’s voice. “There you are!”

Ren paused, turned. Narukami was padding up the cross-street toward him, hand in his pocket, smiling.

“Hi,” Ren said, rocking onto his toes, rubbing his prickling neck. “I thought we were meeting at the station.”

“We are. I’m just heading there now.” Narukami cocked his head. “Want to walk together?”

“Sure,” Ren said, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, or run. “Let’s go.”

Narukami fell into step beside him, keeping easy pace. “Don’t look back,” he murmured.

Ren frowned at him.

And then, behind him, he heard a deep, slightly husky voice call, “Hey, fellas! Can I talk to you a minute?”

Narukami’s fingers fluttered at Ren’s elbow, urging him faster.

Muttering behind them indicated dissent, and the husky voice said, “I know it sounded like I was asking, but I wasn’t. I’m a cop. What’re you two doing here?”

“This way,” Narukami said.

He steered Ren across the street and onto a twisting, winding road that would take them to the station after half a dozen turns. Even if those guys caught up, they’d never get a clear shot at Ren here.

“All right,” Narukami muttered, craning to see over his shoulder. “I think we’re good.”

“Thank you,” Ren rasped. His mouth was full of sand. “How did you know—”

“Kanji saw them hanging around the Shopping District this morning.” Ren shut his eyes. “I figured it was about time you had a break.”

“Was that your uncle? Dojima-san?”

“Yeah. He can’t make them stop for good, but he can keep an eye out for you around town. I’m hoping Mitsuru’ll know some way to get them off your back.” Narukami’s hand returned to Ren’s elbow, squeezing lightly. “We’ll do our best.”

Ren’s exhale was shaky, but he couldn’t muster the will to be embarrassed. It was hard enough to stay upright. “Thanks.”

***

They’d just sat down on the train when Narukami nodded at Ren’s bag. “So what’s in there?”

Ren hesitated. Moment of truth. “ _Who’s_ in there,” he said, and unzipped it.

Morgana sprang out, shook himself from nose to tail. Narukami jumped, and stared.

“A cat?”

“I’m not a cat!” Morgana snapped, bristling.

“A talking cat,” said Narukami, flat.

“I’m not a cat,” Morgana repeated. He sat down in Ren’s lap, glowering at Narukami. “Igor made me. If you’re really a Wild Card, you should know what that means.”

Narukami’s expression went blank.

“Igor made you,” he said. “Igor _made_ you.”

“Yes.”

“Igor…can make things. Living things.”

“Yes,” Morgana said, lifting his chin. “He needed me to guide the humans while the Velvet Room was compromised.”

Narukami blinked at Ren, who grinned.

“I haven’t told you our story, have I?”

***

Akechi was waiting for them outside the station. He was still wearing the lumpy coat and ratty jeans that had no business looking as good as they did, but his hair was down today, framing his face in a fluffy cloud not unlike Ren’s. As Ren and Narukami approached, the wind slammed into Akechi, throwing his hair into his face. When he dragged it aside, he was scowling.

“Morning,” Ren called.

Akechi’s scowl disappeared, replaced by something star-bright and pear-sweet. Ren’s stomach did a little flip.

“Good morning,” Akechi replied.

For a strange second, Ren almost could have taken his hand, or hugged him, or kissed his cheek. He’d spent a year imagining what that might be like: while they crowded close over billiards; sipped sugary mocktails at Jazz Jin; sprinted together through the Metaverse. Now, holding Akechi’s gaze, soft and deep and brilliantly scarlet, the possibility seemed to hang in the air between them, a gossamer thread pulled taut. Especially with the memory, vivid as reality, of Akechi’s ribcage rising and falling against his own; of Akechi’s arms surprisingly gentle around his body.

Narukami broke the spell.

“We haven’t met,” he said to Akechi, who eyed him, cool and assessing. “I’m Yu Narukami.”

“Goro Akechi,” Akechi replied, shaking his proffered hand.

“Hi, Akechi,” Morgana piped, springing onto Ren’s shoulder.

“Hello, Morgana.”

“We’re headed for Chagall Café,” Narukami said, nodding down the street. “Ever been?”

“No,” Ren said. Akechi shook his head.

Narukami smiled. “The coffee’s good, but don’t drink it. We’ll never get through the meeting otherwise. Especially you,” he added to Ren. Ren and Akechi exchanged a look. “Come on.”

Ren and Akechi followed him. Despite the icy wind and forbidding clouds, the city was busy. It would’ve been best for them to move single file. But Akechi walked beside Ren, so close that their shoulders brushed, flaring heat all along Ren’s side. Ren glanced at him, but he had fixed his gaze on Narukami’s broad shoulders and didn't notice.

“Good morning,” Narukami called, and Ren looked around.

Chagall Café was a block down from the station, tucked between the clothes shop, Croco Fur, and a dingy alleyway. The sign over the glass-fronted doors was golden, but tarnished, the word CHAGALL faded almost to smudges. Ren had a feeling that was by design.

Standing in front of the cafe, beneath a tattered fabric awning, were two women. One of them was dressed in a fine, calf-length brown coat cut sharp at the shoulders and close at the waist, accentuating her slim figure. She’d paired it with black leather boots and black gloves, and her voluminous red hair spilled freely down her back and across her forehead, obscuring one of her crimson eyes. She offered Narukami a curt nod and Akechi and Ren a gimlet glance, lingering on Morgana still peering over Ren’s shoulder.

The other—

Pain in Ren’s chest, a blade in his heart, collapsing his lungs; he opened his mouth, rattled; darkness lapped at the edges of his vision—

—and then it was gone, just like that, fading to a dull ache and then to nothing. Ren gasped, massaging his ribs, swallowing rough like he’d screamed; he really hoped he hadn’t, what a bad first impression—

Then he realized that Akechi was shaken too, standing motionless and white-faced. Ren followed his gaze back to the woman, and tensed. She was pale as them, violet eyes stark against the whey cast of her skin. Her lips were slightly parted, woolly-mittened hand clutched tight to her pink peacoat.

“Oh,” she breathed, offering a watery smile. “Red Hawk,” she said, pointing at Ren, “and Black Condor,” at Akechi, “huh?”

“What?” Ren whispered.

“ _What_?” Akechi rasped.

“Nothing,” she said. She looked down and away, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Never mind.”

The red-haired woman frowned at her. “What was that about?”

“No idea,” said the other woman, smiling. “Probably nothing to worry about.”

“Probably?” Narukami said, putting his hand in his pocket.

“Definitely.”

“Whatever it was, it was weird,” said Morgana.

The red-haired woman stiffened; the dark-haired woman’s jaw dropped.

“A talking cat?” said the red-haired woman, like an accusation.

“How _cute_ ,” the other one gasped, clapping her hands to her brightening cheeks.

“I’m not a cat,” Morgana said, turning up his nose. “I’m the embodiment of human hope.”

The red-haired woman squinted, but the other one skipped forward and cupped Morgana’s face in her hands.

“Of course you are,” she cooed, bumping their foreheads together. “Just the sweetest, softest, handsomest embodiment of human hope there is! Look at those pretty eyes! And your fur! Gorgeous!”

Akechi pretended to gag. Ren snickered.

“Oh,” Morgana said, and melted when the woman scritched behind his ears. “Well! It’s nice to finally be appreciated!”

“This is Maya Amano,” Narukami said, indicating Morgana’s new friend. “And that’s Mitsuru Kirijo.” The red-haired woman inclined her head. “Maya, Mitsuru, this is Ren Amamiya, Morgana, and Goro Akechi.”

“Amamiya-san,” Mitsuru said. “Akechi-san. …Morgana.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Maya said, turning her megawatt smile on first Ren and then Akechi. “We’ve heard a lot! Shall we go inside?”

She was scratching Morgana’s chin now. His purr echoed around them.

“Let’s,” Mitsuru said, spinning on her heel.

It was surprisingly nice inside the café, light and open and inviting, all gold fixtures and pink walls. Definitely the sort of place you’d go for a slice of cake (there were several on display in a glass case) and a cup of tea, rather than curry that would fry your tongue and coffee that would melt your teeth.

Ren couldn’t help wrinkling his nose. Sojiro would’ve hated it.

Standing beside the biggest table was a severe, bald-headed man in dark sunglasses. He wore a sort of maître d’ outfit, black apron over white dress shirt and black slacks. The only hair on his head was a silver goatee, trimmed into perfectly straight lines around his mouth and chin.

“Everyone, this is Mumon,” Narukami said. “The owner. Mumon, this is Ren Amamiya.”

“I know about you,” Mumon said. His voice, at least, matched his appearance: gruff and growly, more like a former yakuza than a coffee guy. Iwai would’ve been right at home. “How’re your parents?”

Ren blinked. “They’re well.”

“Good, good. And how was Sojiro? He treat you right?”

Ren blinked again, opened his mouth, closed it. “He—was great,” he said, and understood, like clouds parting. “You’re the one who—”

“I figured helping you would snap him out of that funk,” Mumon said, curling his lip to reveal a glinting golden tooth. “Can’t make good coffee if you’re sulking.”

“Sojiro’s coffee is fantastic,” Ren countered. “Better than yours.”

There was a breathless pause. Then Mumon tipped his head back and laughed, rough and barklike.

“I like you,” he informed Ren, unfolding his arms to extend a hand. “Welcome.”

Ren shook, managing to escape with his knuckles intact.

Mumon turned to Akechi, and Narukami said, “This is Goro Akechi.”

Thunder might have cracked above their heads. Suddenly Mumon seemed to fill the room, his head practically scraping the ceiling.

“ _Seriously_?” he boomed. “Where the hell have you been?”

Ren instinctively stepped between Akechi and Mumon, and it was a mark of how shocked Akechi was that he let Ren do it.

“Excuse me?” Akechi managed.

“I said,” Mumon repeated, leaning almost over Ren to fix Akechi with what was surely a blazing stare behind his sunglasses, “ _where have you been_?”

Akechi gaped, snapped his mouth shut.

“I’m afraid that’s none of your business,” Akechi replied coldly. “I don’t know you—”

“Muhen’s been worried sick about you!” Mumon said. The air whooshed out of Ren’s lungs; Akechi went still. “It’s all he’ll talk about! Goro this, Goro that! You can’t just drop off the face of the earth and expect nobody to care!”

“Muhen,” Akechi breathed. “ _Muhen_ is—”

“My brother,” Mumon said, jabbing his thumb into his chest. “Don’t tell me you forgot him!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Akechi said. He pushed Ren aside, searching Mumon’s expression. “He’s been worried about me?”

“Yeah,” Ren said. Akechi looked sharply at him. “At least, he was last year. I went to Jazz Jin before I left Tokyo. He asked about you.”

“You Persona kids are all the same,” Mumon groused. “You get everybody invested, and then you disappear like it’s nothing—Mutatsu still ain’t over—”

Mitsuru coughed. Mumon sucked his lip against his teeth.

“Whatever. You’d better call him,” Mumon said, leveling a finger at Akechi. “Or email him, or something. In fact, gimme your number. If you haven’t called him in two hours, I’m doing it for you.”

“I will call him,” Akechi said. His voice was low and soothing, gentle as Ren had never heard it before. “I swear. I would have called him ages ago if I’d known he cared.”

“ _Assume people care_ ,” Mumon snapped.

Akechi bowed his head.

After a second, Mitsuru coughed again.

“Everyone,” she said, “please sit.”

Once they were settled, Mumon, back to his normal size, said, “Anybody want some coffee?”

“No,” Narukami said. “Tea’s fine. Matcha, please.”

“Matcha sounds lovely,” said Mitsuru.

“Please,” said Ren.

“Water for me,” Akechi said, picking at the tablecloth.

“I’ll have some lemonade,” Maya chirped. “And a slice of strawberry cake!”

“Coming right up,” Mumon said, and stalked off.

For a moment, no one spoke. Beside Ren, Akechi was still staring at the table, eyebrows furrowed. Before he could think better of it, Ren reached over and grasped his sleeve.

Akechi jumped, looked at Ren’s hand, lifted his gaze to Ren’s face. His expression—gentle, _gentle_ , that seemed to be the word of the day, and sweet—thrilled through Ren, pooling warm in his belly.

Then Morgana leapt onto the table.

“All right,” he said, settling into a cat-loaf. “Spill it. What’s your offer?”

Maya and Mitsuru looked at each other. Maya motioned for Mitsuru to begin.

“Right,” Mitsuru said, flicking her hair out of her face. “We represent the two groups that have assumed responsibility for protecting the world from Shadows. I am head of the Kirijo Group, which is—for lack of a better term—the _military_ side of the operation. We fight Shadows directly as the Shadow Operatives.”

“And I’m part of the Nanjo Group,” said Maya, covering her heart. “We’re the diplomatic side of things. We connect with Persona users in other countries, negotiate alliances, things like that.”

“We’d like to invite you to join us,” Mitsuru said. “As experienced Persona users, you would be excellent assets to our cause. You might work for Nanjo, or for me, or you might trade back and forth as needed. Whatever you’d like.”

Mumon came by with their drinks and Maya’s cake. There was a brief, busy silence while Narukami distributed tea and Maya tucked into her dessert.

“Of course,” Mitsuru added, lowering her chin to look at Ren and Akechi through her bangs, “you needn’t join us at all, if you'd prefer not to. We know something of your activities the past two years; we know you can be trusted with the power. But with us, you could use it for good. You could make a true, lasting impact on the world around you.”

It was everything Ren had been wishing for.

Which meant it was probably too good to be true.

“What would it entail, exactly?” Akechi said, apparently reading Ren’s mind. “Joining you.”

“Well,” said Maya, “we’d ask for one year of dedicated service. In the Nanjo Group, you’d spend that time getting to know the other members, learning about the job, and then traveling to different countries. We’re based in Tokyo, so it wouldn’t be too big of a move for either of you.”

“In the Shadow Operatives, you’d go through tactical training on Port Island,” Mitsuru said. “Naturally I imagine you’re both quite skilled already. Once you’re prepared, we’d deploy you to address Shadow outbreaks wherever they occur. And if a major crisis were to form, you’d be expected to help address it.”

“The pay’s really good,” Maya said, with a sly smile. “And you get all sorts of benefits. Vacation time, sick time, free mental health care, living stipends, bereavement leave—”

“Copious bereavement leave,” said Mitsuru. “We hope you never have to use it, but death comes for us all.”

“Mitsuru-chan,” Maya murmured, almost chiding. “Once your first year’s over, you can leave. Forever, if you want, or just for a while. Or you can become a reserve member. Yu, for example—” She smiled at Narukami, and he ducked his head—“is on reserve. So is Maki, Akechi-san.”

“It’s difficult work,” Mitsuru said. “I won’t sugarcoat it. But you’ve both— _all_ —been through difficult things and prevailed. I’m certain you can handle it, no matter which path you choose. And it is a truly tremendous opportunity. A year of your life, at most, in exchange for helping to protect the world from the creatures you’ve been fighting all along. And, of course, in exchange for the money and benefits that befit your dedication.”

Maya said, “So?”

So.

Morgana sat up, curled his tail around his paws, looked at Ren.

Ren—

“I accept,” Akechi said.

—felt the tightrope beneath his feet snap, and plummeted toward the ground.

Maya beamed, clapped her hands. Mitsuru smiled and closed her eyes.

“That’s great!” Maya squealed.

“I’m very pleased to hear that,” Mitsuru said. “Would you prefer one group over the other?”

“I want to be a Shadow Operative,” Akechi told her. He threaded his fingers together on the table. Ren stared at them, at a fresh scar like a burn on the back of Akechi’s wrist. “For now. I suppose I might switch tracks later.”

“You’re more than welcome to do so,” Mitsuru assured him. “Do you have any further questions for me?”

Apparently he did, because his mouth started moving, but Ren couldn’t hear him. A rushing noise had filled his skull, like the dull roar of ocean water. He almost felt like he was sinking, his clothes billowing around him, his wet, heavy shoes dragging him toward the ocean floor.

He’d expected this. He’d _expected this_. But somehow he was still drowning.

“Amamiya-kun?” Maya said, cutting through the flood. “What about you?”

Ren blinked. Everyone was staring at him, Akechi and Narukami impassive, Maya, Mitsuru, and Morgana expectant.

Ren met Morgana’s gaze, saw his quivering ears, the rigid set of his shoulders. It was the lifeline he needed.

“I can’t make this decision on my own,” Ren said, straightening his spine. He sensed Akechi’s eyes narrow, sharpen, but ignored him. “I have to talk to my teammates.”

“Ah,” Maya said, smiling.

Mitsuru nodded. “Our offer is, of course, open to them as well. Any and all of them. And, as I said before, none of you are obligated to join us, now or ever. Please take your time and think about it.”

Ren nodded. Akechi’s gaze was hot on the side of his face. “I will. We will. Thank you very much.”

He sat there while the others finished their drinks and Maya her cake, stirring his tea without ever lifting it to his lips. Something cold and curdled had settled in his stomach, and he had a feeling it would come flying out if disturbed. Eventually Morgana came to sit beside him, leaning on his arm.

Akechi kept cutting him stinging glances, even as he plotted out his own future with Mitsuru. In Port Island. Without Ren. 

Finally, it was time to go. Ren avoided Akechi’s eye as they stepped out onto the chill pavement. The cold, curdled something was still thick in his gut, weighing him down. He didn’t trust himself not to break if he saw the look on Akechi’s face, no doubt calm and collected and maybe just a little pleased.

Because Ren knew full well he wasn’t being reasonable. Of course Akechi should go, and of course Ren should be happy for him. Akechi finally had the chance to _belong_ somewhere, to be with people that would appreciate him the way he deserved. The way he’d always deserved. What could be better?

And what had Ren expected, anyway? It wasn’t like he had a plan for his own life. His parents wouldn’t let him hang out at their house forever, so presumably he’d eventually go back to Tokyo, get an apartment, work six jobs and ghost around the city making friends with all the wrong people. Do the Persona thing whenever he got the call, if he ever got the call again.

He’d known that Akechi would never consent to be tethered to someone so aimless. So why be upset about it? Why waste the energy? Why waste the limited time before Akechi went to Port Island for good, and eventually dropped out of Ren’s life for good too? Better to appreciate what he had while he had it, and figure out the rest later.

He had almost, _almost_ convinced himself of that when Narukami hooked his fingers through the strap of Ren’s bag and lifted it off his shoulder.

“ _Gyah_!” Morgana squawked, poking his head out. “What are you doing?”

“I want to talk to you,” Narukami told him. “Mitsuru, Maya, I’ll walk you to your car. Ren, Goro, wait for me here.”

“Bye, guys!” Maya said, waving. “I hope I see you soon!”

Mitsuru nodded solemnly, and the three of them headed for the carpark, Morgana loudly protesting under Narukami’s arm.

Somehow, being alone with Akechi was worse. Ren stared after the others, feeling his shoulders start to come up around his ears as Akechi’s eyes bored a hole through the back of his skull.

“So,” Ren said, and jumped when Akechi seized his arm.

“Come along,” Akechi said, dragging Ren into the nearest alley.

“Come—where?” Ren skipped over a discarded sandwich wrapper. “Akechi—”

“I’m not talking to you about this out on the street.”

“But you’ll talk about it in an _alley_?”

Akechi stopped, swung around, and his knife-sharp gaze plunged straight through Ren’s heart, leaving him breathless.

“What’s the matter with you?” Akechi asked, low and fierce. He still hadn’t let go of Ren’s arm; his fingers scorched Ren’s sleeve. “Why did you turn them down?”

“I didn’t,” Ren said, and when Akechi scoffed he bristled. “I didn’t! I have to talk to the others—”

“The others,” Akechi sneered. “What have they got to do with it? They’re not here.”

“Just because they have their own lives—”

“Yes, they do, as you have yours. Who cares how they feel? Mitsuru offered this opportunity to _you_ , not to them.”

“She offered it to all of us, as a team.”

“She offered it to each of you, as individuals.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference,” Akechi said, grip tightening to painful, “is that you don’t need their permission to accept. If this is what you want to do—”

“How do you know if it is?”

“Obviously it is! Obviously it’s the best option open to you.”

Ren flushed. “You don’t know what you’re—”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Akechi snapped, advancing on him. It was all Ren could do not to back away. “Tell me you have something better planned.”

“I—”

“No,” Akechi said. His eyes glittered; his fingertips creaked against Ren’s bones. “What _is_ your plan, Ren? You’re going to stay in Inaba, work at the textile shop, go soft and doughy and stupid like all the rest of these fools?” A flash of indignation straightened Ren’s spine, opened his mouth, but Akechi continued: “Or maybe you’ll run away to Tokyo and spend your time skulking around your old haunts? Pining for your glory days? Your _sixteen year old_ glory days?”

“Akechi—”

“Call me _Goro_ ,” Goro said.

He was standing incredibly close. Ren wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. Their faces were an inch apart if that, Goro’s eyes and his fine nose and his thin, ferocious mouth all Ren could see.

“You should come to Port Island,” Goro said, “with me.”

With him.

_With him?_

Ren swayed forward, seized the front of Goro’s coat.

“With you,” Ren croaked.

“Yes.”

Ren dragged him closer, impossibly closer, Goro tilting his head so their noses wouldn’t collide. Now all Ren could see were Goro’s eyes, luminous in the gloom; and he could feel Goro’s breath hot on his own lips, thought he could hear Goro’s heart banging inside his ribs.

“Do you know what you’re saying,” Ren said, tightening his grip until his fingers ached. “Do you know what you’re—”

Ren heard, rather than saw, Goro smile; watched it crinkle the corners of his eyes.

“I took you on no fewer than sixteen dates, Amamiya,” Goro purred. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

Ren stepped forward and Goro let himself be borne backward, into the alley wall. Ren didn’t dare break his gaze long enough to look, but he would have sworn that Goro’s smile had shrunk to a smirk. The smug asshole.

“Took me on sixteen dates, and then tried to kill me,” Ren said, and his heart leapt as Goro’s chest rose on a triumphant gasp.

“Tried to kill you?” Goro said. “Nonsense. I knew it wasn’t you in that chair. You would never have let me get the better of you.”

The smug, incredible, beautiful asshole.

Ren beamed. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“I wish you would.”

So Ren did.

Goro’s arms immediately flew up to wrap around him, squeezing like he could crush them together, like he could slot their hips and ribs and faces into each other jigsaw. His mouth was dry and firm, his lips plush and chapped, nothing like the liquid softness Ren had imagined when he’d pictured kissing him last year. Probably, Ren thought, fumbling at the zipper on Goro’s coat, his lips would have been softer then; probably he didn’t worry about things like that anymore; and then Goro’s coat was open and Ren had plunged his hands inside, winding both arms around Goro’s still-slender waist to draw him flush to his own torso. Goro’s fingers were bruising on Ren’s shoulder and his hips hard and his chest solid, his sternum resounding against Ren’s with a heartbeat as wild as his own.

Goro broke the kiss first, sliding his mouth sideways along Ren’s cheek, bringing both hands up to tangle into Ren’s hair. The sensation of Goro’s fingertips against his scalp sent static hissing down Ren’s spine and across his skin, compressing his lungs. He squeezed Goro tighter, earning a startled huff; rucked up Goro’s shirt to flatten his palms against his back, against taut, smooth, scalding flesh.

“I missed you,” Goro whispered, and all at once Ren realized he was shaking. They both were, their knees knocking together, clinging to each other to stay upright. “Ren, Ren, I missed you, I—”

“I love you,” Ren replied, not regretting it, no matter how ridiculous it sounded, no matter how impossible it was that he could love someone he’d barely known and hadn’t seen in a year. It didn’t matter. Ren’s heart was full to bursting, throbbing inside his chest, and he felt more real and alive than he had since Maruki had told him the truth, that Goro was going to die and there was nothing Ren could do to stop it.

Except that Maruki hadn’t been telling the truth. Goro hadn’t died. He was alive and he was here, turning his head to capture Ren’s mouth once more, softer and sweeter, parting his lips to let Ren savor the expert glide of his tongue and the judder of his teeth. Cupping Ren’s face in his palms, whimpering as Ren traced the arch of his spine and the jut of his shoulderblades and the fine ridges of his ribs. He was still _so_ thin, but less unhealthily than he had been; there was an actual layer of flesh over still-lean muscle, wonderfully plush, infinitely satisfying to squeeze and knead and sink his fingers into.

Ren could have stood there forever, touching Goro and kissing Goro and holding Goro the way he’d wanted to almost since the beginning. But Goro was, as ever, determined to propel Ren forward even when Ren wanted to stand still.

He drew back and forced Ren to look him in the eye. His pupils were enormous, shadowy irises barely distinguishable; his lips, Ren saw at a glance, were swollen and glistening.

“Come with me,” Goro said. “You won’t say no, will you?”

Ren didn’t think. There was nothing left to think about. He smoothed his thumb across Goro’s cheek, threaded his fingers into Goro’s hair.

“I’m with you,” he said. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading.


End file.
